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The Loving One

Like a black brushstroke poised on a gleaming reed,
an afterthought of the rising sun
bending bow-like over glass,
we’re a black butterfly, beloved One,
one black wing your death, the other mine,
the butterfly weaving a line
over water – till weaver
disappears, and only the Loving One
remains, shifting glass and the sun.

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One Comment

  1. Departure of someone loved beautifully and elegantly displayed. Though to the one in pain there’s nothing beautiful or elegant in such. tfs

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