| In the vague light of this dawnlit room
|
| With tender feet a spider brushes my brow
|
| She longs for the warmth and all the blessed things
|
| Long since gone
|
| In their stead
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| A starlit void to take us in
|
| Unsullied altogether by a single city’s light
|
| The profound silence of the woods
|
| The strange serenity of these hollow homes
|
| And those of us that remain able to provide
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| Each other these signs of affection
|
| The perfect brown egg fresh from the coop
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| A crumble sweet, a mound of berries black
|
| A warm cup of tea second to last in existence
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| A slight touch of gentle confusion
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| Of sorrow, of compassion, or risen from rare tenderness
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| All the more fragile and bittersweet in the dawning awareness
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| Of how little there is left to possess
|
| To share
|
| To sustain
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| To nurture a forlorn thread of hope resting in the cup if one’s palm
|
| Not long now
|
| I suppose the wind
|
| Shall kill the last of flames
|
| We’ve run out of things to burn and devour
|
| Will it sooth us then, in the end of all things
|
| To gently grasp the hand of another
|
| Slowly growing cold |