FifthTimeAround
May 10
Broken pens empty into the soil,
Ink receding slowly down to earth,
Like the gentrified stone park benches at the bay,
We relish the crumble,
Just deserts
The Mood of Ascension ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ...
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