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Poetry

A silver thread pierces my hand,
Gleams in lamplight, my fingers flexing there,
The needle plunging into bleeding skin,
Making a high-pitched, silver sound

Becoming words shining in the flame that they create.
Tarnished words converge into beginnings,
Flame and words, beginnings
In moonlight, fairy rings, clouds across the sky

Entering a sentence that began elsewhere.
The tarnished thread. The hand it pierces.
Hand it weaves. The gleaming
And nothing before. The before it weaves.
The after.


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