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An otherwise stoic summer breeze,
Wavers in the frost.
It makes the wandering soul confer
The size of what is lost.

Though the sky is still everywhere and --
Column on column - the larks fly,
The invisible stays visible
If we would “try” -

This love contrasts a measured grief,
But the rub remains reluctant to let go,
Writhing and tithing it’s a ways
For us to truly know -

Could it be us - would it be all -
For the rust on the razor becomes the will -
To live or not live,
A sweet ventilation Afterall --

— The End —