No way to know these woods well, to assume, they are my friends.
No way to examine sacrificed buildings,
to know if they have a hand to lend.
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While routine holds fast to my wandering eye.
The purist in me believes, it is my love for recanted beauty that will get me by.
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Long lasting and languid, as a lover’s kiss.
A slumbering, lumbering, shine.
Such as coffee, in my morning cup.
So, what of devotion offering a look up?
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Freedom of thought.
Offerings mature in shredded leaf.
Matted frost prints, two feet, several precious paws.
Hints of frankincense from a misguided thaw.
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There is no ambiguity between the rock and dust that is chilled in a worn path.
The floating heavens did not force my hand.
It is but grace that brought me here.
It is with grace I hope to hold that affinity dear.