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I Am Santo

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Season’s passed. Seasons past. Left in the vague memory of warmth and calm, a love light flickering weakly in the dark like starfire lost in the firmament of broken hopes. It’s death, this morning of mourning come into afternoon like the inevitable forgetfulness accompanying kindness and care, the taken for granted, the hand left, palm open and fingers extended for another’s to knot, to not be alone. Abandoned illumination and promise, a filament so slowly whispering into the inky cloak of night that it escapes notice until it’s gone, an empty bulb sat in a chain of similar failure that once gleamed vibrant tidings of good faith and now sings with no voice the dirge of low worth, of goodbye. Every ending can be predicted, like the spill of rain from approaching gray, but never the deluge, never the torrential drown that chokes, suffocates, tears limbs from heart and shreds the flesh fabric of organs with an unknown, immeasurable velocity of hurt and then stitches them together into a shroud for every single dream shared; a funeral for the thumping heart of belief. What mighty collapses wandered into, desolate, crestfallen structures of faith fallen like thatched huts in hurricanes, the reeds and fronds of then now the refuse littering fabled paradise. And always there, haunting, is that flawless beach of yesterday, that gorgeous stellar wish that burned so bright it left scars on these eyes forever; a vision marred by the reminder of what was and what can never be again.

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