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Divine Death
Crimson words have licked the parchment of her skin
for years to come.
She feels ancient;
the wind warps her face
and cradles its contours.
She sees no color
yet is she to be called color blind?
For all she sees is the gray wall before her,
save the darkness that etches the window pane each night.
Follow the petals
that have cringed at winter’s grasp
as they erode and form to ash
in her footsteps.
The pain in her chest
has long been awakened
and the flowers in her lungs
are devoid of all their fronds.
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