We are formed by little scraps of wisdom. Umberto Eco

These fingers point at letters
those letters point at words
and then the disturbance -
occurs.

My love she was a vixen
she howled in the night
those feelings they just left me -
despite

This mourning which continues
throughout decades, in a line,
my lover she engages me -
in time.

These swirling skies of fortune,
this lake’s grey and white despair,
these suicides at sunset -
ethereal and rare.

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