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The trees hold their court in wind.
The pigeons chortle agreement.
And the staleness of the day,
before sunset,
heightens the echoes of testimony.
I miss it already
though it is not yet gone.
What one may call "living memories"
cycles of nature and greater worlds
will dissolve.
Not death,
it is merely the shedding of skin.
My death
is a length of rope for you
to measure from.
You law forces its heralded will
upon me.
But listen,
if all things arrive
then they belong.
And so too,
if they are loved
they need not love.
When morning comes, you will be me.
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