Existence

There is no poetry to

be given to poetry,

that cannot sit bathed

in candlelight by a desk

reading itself.

For all things I have pity;

lightning paths in her eyes

like stained glass windows of

a cathedral, unknowingly holy,

she sits upon her conscienceness

like a pebble in a stream,

a thing without lungs gasping for air,

and there is no telling her of

the beauty of swimming.

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