Fever
Waken to see me,
Tied back by the loom of graces long hesitation;
The folds of favor seem to do none for mine.
Take up now the salty masses of chance,
Those hateful broods who lie beside you;
An era of staggered fortitude.
Where summers days bleed to winters afternoon;
If only to kiss the lips of faith again,
Breath in its last breath and walk.
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