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mindaviews redmoon marcos mordeno nomad verses

The panes froze
as I turned
for a last glimpse
of wasted bliss
and caged pain.
In the gathering dusk
that held a knife
to my shadow,
the cold rain
patted my shoulders,
as if begging me
to never forget.
Yet, to remember
is to suffer.
Memory is a prison.
So let the heart
dwell in silence,
the eloquence of loss,
the graveyard of grief.
There, it shall again
with life pulsate.

14 December 2022

(Redmoon of Bukidnon likes to describe himself as a trying hard poet.)

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