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Monday, August 25, 2008

A thousand passing Suns
Each new dawn that comes
brings not a fresh start but reruns
of the same ancient tragedy,
written by ourselves;
embedded in a seed, dispersed by
a cyclic wind, that delves
deep into the harrowing ground
and emerges one too frequently,
our mistakes played on loop
We never grow numb only
increasingly decrepit and broken;
a reflection of Perriot's plaintive stare,
as Harlequin sticks out his slapstick
A recurring nightmare,
and he stumbles yet again at Columbina's feet.

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3:57 PM