A fire is lit,
Out and over these, the rooftops,
a sea of chimneys, quiet, there was in every
the hurt, and now the laugh and kindness of shame forgotten.
Fume and under
the wind and chance, the silent ivy creeping in the light
and riot I've found - rolling the fields of herbs and orchid
My own Rubicon,
a museum of blackbirds, deliver and flight, in this place of holes.
Of the might and shadows of the love I've found,
the terrible and great persuasion of you cast over me
And could I ever begin to know what this and you,
the freedom and glass at the edge of wonder, could offer?
In this seat - the cloth and tear, the stirring -
the blindness of waiting and the strength and must of bearing
Of a lover's shoulders,
the heaviness of joy in the absence of blame,
and from the rare and rising, a republic of ashes,
wherein once was flame, no more smoke.
No more smoke.
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