The
lines
we
spin
are
silken threads,
so
enticing,
flies
have been talking
about
them
ever
since.
Ours
is a poetry
born
to die:
The
lightest of winds
destroys
all trace;
yet,
each resurrection
takes
us back
like
victims
to
the spot
where
fate wears
a
party hat,
just
like the first time.
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