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All of this happens before.
Misty mornings,
Where trees, hills and chance skies
Trace soft lines against
The long edge of summer,
Glistening perfectly,
On stale afternoons
Before evening rises again,
Bathing us in its long, quiet pause.
.
None of this can be undone.
The daily rhythm,
Pulsing softly,
Then snapped,
While heat furrows once sweet spaces,
Now shadowy reminds of
Yesterday missed,
And a dusty cache of
Incessant tomorrows.
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