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Ms. Price
The Matriarch of Thought Standing once, again, at the front, near porous mind’s space Stay at the cusp of those taught tangled tangibles. Yet now I am Her words, weighted moving out, Stopping, at the...
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Fickle love’s passing fate, Seen a wretched cold world; Sweet birdsong of the wind, And a blouse lay unfurled.
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A life made of days, A year made of moments; How we will forget— The places in between.
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