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It's still fresh - the dew sitting
on grass blackened in the fire
Tiny droplets of love ricochetting
off abrasive desire.

There is still a stretch of moist green
in vast lakes of chemical mud
Escapades of the mind absolved
by the gravity of blood.

There are lilies among plastic nails
Ashes strewn on forest trails
But there is resistance to storm
in the strength of these sails.


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