Wormwood That Calls Sweetness

There she walks, in the cold winter night, uptown, a ghost and a dream of mine.

The remnants, the half-life of life lived, and all that we hope for, after they’re gone.

Still young, still bright and light, she walks, smiling, not at all like when she died.

I watch her, winter kind only it in its bitterness, wormwood that calls sweetness.

 

 

 

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