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After The Ceremony

I would be riding
your stumps- to
byzantine castle
of ardor.

It was not
my thesis- to make
me blithsome.
You were your own enemy.

In a crushed phenomenon
I was sketching you
in coal, without scratching
the face on moon-paper.

The room
crumbles. Space shrinks.
I cannot touch you
in moments, in time.

What I bequeathed
remains unclaimed.
Satish written by

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