Day 72

The very breath I summon, is expirated cold,
Dead on stone’s girth,
Faintly glimpsing better blues,
Exhaustion making last the hope,
The smile, the first of winter,
Clenched no longer, fists, but tremors
Vented and dissipated as my embers,
Gone the resolute to ascend,
Pain, pain in craning to look up,
Lofted beacons that never flinch,
Never go, never die,
Invested as regal citadels
In a sedated metropolis of
Saunterers, stumbling, all,
Yearning vainly, faltering in step,
Veering forward, wasted body
And exhaling


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