Like cradles,
Without their silenced infants,
I am in the bitterness of retirement
Away from a darkness,
Into a light.
Like the words I craft from sinister hands,
Like the faces I conjure from a weathered mind,
Misery follows.

She has her hands sunk in the ocean,
Lifting waves.
For her pale arms ride from the moon
To the limitless sands,
Beneath departure
Of tides that carry photographs,
Onwards to the next sleep.
For as the moon settles
I am awakened by the burning light of reality.

Memories linger,
The muse,
The form, the shadow,

Follows toward the next life,
The next day
In contact with a better message,
A better word,
Away from yesterday
When she lost her breath.

Losing sighs,
To still these turning pages of my mind.
There is sickness being heated,
There is sadness being disguised
By a mistreatment.

She is the betterment to this storm,
A memory,
A muse,
And of burning fingers
Locking shelter in place.

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