Refreshingly new approach

fleeting pixel

By becoming words | added to another order | The body | drifts in type | Domestic scene a tragedy, a | monotone | Writing home, you expect a good summer | Branching from your flesh, the words | may sometimes appear to mock you | with all their bustle of | convincing eternity | Their blossoms, when they open | stay open | while yours | wither and slip away | Building silence, a glance | into August skies, more empty | than eras or dynasties | For an emperor, as for you, when a flower dies, the petals fall | Off to everyone, and no one, the words | are going | how brave they look | in their fine uniforms | like beautiful, doomed recruits…

Imperial summer | blue | No place to put even the | haziest of notions | No nook or cirrus flaw |…

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