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  • Heaven, with its broken,
    blackened fingers,
    reaches down softly
    across a cold, November

    The nails glisten
    on the tips of the ashen and frail
    hands, as the cloudy flesh tapers
    down beyond the extent
    of cumulous bone.

    The feathery fear
    caresses the pale face,
    and wipes away the tears
    of an old, dusty, tranquil sea--
    blowing away footprints with whispers
    of a past yearning for stone,
    and finding only temporary solace.
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