the page falling flat upon its face,

the page falling flat upon its face,
tells you still of how its read—
but in the shadows, sights scatter,
desperate for their light
and here I look on you as you fall through me
and now I don’t hear those winds,
those winds that tell of what came and went;
but those chasing the tides to the moons,
calling your ever-lastings’ grace—

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