0416 
the buds of late spring 
open and tentative 
unflex their pods
like prayers unseen.

they touch moonlight
brushing in the occident
like dreams,
fleeting moments where 
the impossible is made real. 

reminds me of someone that dies 
every night; a real Cinderella story 
that refuses to settle on an end.
instead, we recycle those old sores 
instead, we recycle those old stories
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