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Rend

Part 3 of 'Cycles'

The beam that punctures the matted white clouds
Everything has an edge
 
A nervous voice drowned in the crowds
Everything has an edge
 
The hollow of the palm that should be filled by yours
Everything has an edge
 
The memories of then, the words, the thoughts
Are quietly laid to rest
 
Rent skin clumsily stitched back together
Must repair the edge
 
The first time you ever whispered I love you
With the others, now dead.

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