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Brisk and colorless,

A pitted husk masks the ceiling,

The green earth rocking back and forth.

 

Horses halt before the golden trenches,

On this brisk autumn night,

Wind shaking their docile springs.

 

Your tongue raises to another tone,

Proclamations of the weathered elements,

And places of shadowed glory.

 

Blackened hands,

Covered in the dirt of yesterday’s...

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