eastwards falls the tears
on the soft bed of the chinese poets
feather light the quill of my repose
i should write this comfort into words
of comfort but i am too comfortable
to play with the sunbeams or drink at
their iced tears their disparate loves
separated and desperate and inconsolable
no imagination could replicate the years
their winsome days where i float
tasting all the spirits of the mist
the hermitage of time gone cold
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