the heart tells a tale
as it clings to the vines
to remind you of the costs
what could be lost with the fall
when my old friend came
walking in through the
high doors
swung open by his cold wind
pour from the palms
and the soles of the feet
we all come to thoughts
in red ransom harvest
recorded in the book of eternity
writ in warm life
pricked finger only mine
pulsing out this boy
settle old accounts
dry up the rivers dammed
and lakes lolling in
their laziness
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