Cyclical
Summer’s death rides in tangled bits on wisps of the wind
as Autumn’s subtle knock hints with a rasp.
Sun expels departing rays
Shrinking in the light of a fading, endless swelter
which has pulled back all momentum
Time is no pale violet end
It is a shadow seeking constance
with all that is, was, or will be.
Ever after;
in the presence of such
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