At_Last

I don't doubt that wink was etched Deep into the bony socket, Rotted, dropping free of flesh Where flirting had it's wanton locket. Still a deeper brand is found. Which women carry on their souls Virile condescension Damning spirit as it's goal. An indiscreet and hurtful scar Struck at juvenility. Is not each gem a guiding star Of some lone vessel on this sea? To balms of time Such wounds were healed But not before his coffin sealed. Sailing over every wave I brood for them and not his grave, For those who loved And waited, Cared, As I,

Whose ship repaired.

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