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Once nourishing Mothers
yet, now so incredibly cold,
a complex of stems too distant to hold.
Down leaned the gardener
to strike up the pile.
Down came the Sun
To raise up the evening
as fire began to spread
over each crumpled face
Over each great, great desire
ate the orange lace.
To blaze into tossing
Grey whips into clouds.
From simmering emissions
to blistering shrouds.
Copyright © 2010 Will Zell All Rights Reserved.