I don’t know.

glitter grows on the heels of the bold,

each mourning face adoring,

what it could

never

rightfully catch with the fat arrow of envy.

clear are the pillars split with wiser winds,

stuck in years littered with speech,

screwed into the neck of a sacred head.

hands haul the immense regret,

drinking in the melted mornings,

soft tissues tickle on the tongue,

recollection used and once loud voices,

now forever gone,

unsung.

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