Drifting North


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Winter is clattering at the back door.

Long worrisome hours of night falling on the skin.

Yet,

hold still.

Love is not lost.

βˆƒ

Up on geriatric pallets.

Made of used nails and scraps of tin.

The world we know,

inhabited with dark necessities.

A truthful love.

A truthful north.

Knows no pity.

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