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Gary Knapton
Amber’s Embers

Embers of realisation flushed her crimson
Collecting thoughts blooming from her mouth
Flowering in shock
Fruits to silenced awe

Brushing amber strands from her face

Ripening glances took her
Lightning struck
Away

Outside the auditorium
Washed in cold autumn

A moth birthed in the moon

Emitting a frosting of disappointment

Her betrothment
Wrapped in spit and silken threads

Was dead

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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