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The beacons call,
Down into a deserted slumber,
With a worn heart,
Flowing as scattered,
Through seasons,
By aching colours of old.

Sighs swarm across the deadlighten,
Sky above whirling its weight,
Upon my words of dissonance,
The lights keep on dying.

I lay silent as dismay,
Throughout a season that swallows light,
The fires of late august embrace my stray,
From the continuum of a breathing poem,
A gallow’s haste.

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