owls bereave her breast,
in heartless year-long yardsticks
or a painted stick hung ever forward
merciless in subjection depressed.
She looks over the wall
she never sees,
what slivers in silence
dethroned in this lee.
Matriarchs dare where the wind stops to play
in a shelterless moray of trifled mêlée
as I stand by her subtly
She sings of my future;
oblique and demure.
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