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Rosy-Thorned The imposter sun rises upon separate pillows in between two lying in state toes untouching-- now many years. Dawn rises only to recede. Morning light is darkening. The two feign sleep-- pillow mint melting; wilted roses bleeding. He speaks: "You know I have been faking it." She says "me too". It was not sunrise. It was a rosy-thorned beginning; not light, but beaconed night; not day, but dark lifting; not new love but no longer pillows separated-- hearts feigning. Not new flowers but ones no longer bleeding-- pillowed redemptions. |
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