Murder me, with sympathy

Winter winds wind,

Born again,

Defined by the moment-ago,

Remind me of  a Me so,

Forgotten.

Orisons well silently,

For the murder-of-selves to be,

Delivered.

He who boldly goes where carcasses lay,

With no respite but the  quiet confidence to say,

“In spite of all,

Tomorrow calls”

The tomorrow His eyes open for;

As my seized eyes bore,

Inward,

To glimpse a future sight,

Where my selves are all right,

Rather than left,

Behind.

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