#21 tis’ the second of spring’s beckoning.

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So, here I am- we are.

A voice lost in the distance.

Running along rivers brimming of sundry sorrow.

Hands held by clasps sewn of wilting roses.

Thorns prick souls,

A drivel of emotions lapping at the water’s edge,

woe,

for I-we,

are dismal.

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