It Away
The touch of blade to noble skin
as such it fades to soak in sin
as much as or more even than
the touch of blade to morbid skin.
Our spring is meeting us too soon,
while winter’s keeping ‘way the bloom,
blossoming so inopportune.
Release my guilt hand Vernal moon.
Cast down this moon and lift the sun
I can only count to one
but within my hands I hold none
to carry this moon into the sun.
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