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Rated: E · Poetry · Cultural · #2124914
Who tends the fire? Poem.
Walking those same hallways
woven with ivy and wind, wet flagstone
under the winter watch of the moon
a day whose peak passed long ago
and a shiver of memory
lying, deep, in the same grave
with ice spiking their veins
and those words on blue, word-worn lips;
"I am so old,
and so cold,
and my hearth is full of ash."
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2124914