Nascency

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In the greatness of our fallen ambitions,
that one fertile rift,
      soil from stone,
agrees to the flourishing of bladed tufts,
a patchwork of cautiousness,
      optimism as tenderness,
the soul reborn from decay . . .

Empathy prohibits an examination
of survival, consciousness, all the
thrashing beauty in
a breath.

. . . every ripening hour is devoured
all the same.
 
 

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