the night armless, like this
lonely chair in the corridor,
basked by pondered light
from fireflies, reminiscent
of my childhood, when
i did not know the needs
from wants, when i did
not stop to listen to the
name spoken by the scent
of a rose, when my youth
consisted of a word or two -
always a dream, of finding
one, of leaning and loving
and beginning in the end.
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