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Rated: E · Poetry · Other · #1457492
The poem is about aging and the redemptive aspect of forgetfulness.
Which mists must I incinerate
When dreams long lost emerge?
Some, lacking claws, disintegrate.
The taloned God will purge.

The mists which linger navigate
Young seas through old tired sight.
To mercifully invigorate
A clouded sense of right.

When they disperse I'll contemplate
Mists of what's coming near
And through that flight congratulate
Myself that I'm still here.

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