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the pocket knife

Is it not a foe who taunts —
that in itself could be borne?
Is it not an enemy’s tirades—
from them one could hide?
Instead, an arrogant intimacy—
life’s equal, companion & friend.

What close companionship
now scattered in the chill
of uncaring autumn winds;
from familiar paths once
walked together in gardens
of fond affection and glee.


Published inFriendOtherSorrow

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