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Ricochet

With too much

To remember,

Thoughts

Ricochets

Against each other

The friction spawns

Fiction that

We whip into a sauce

To rub out

The mysteries

We cannot explain.

The refrain repeats

itself

Until we reap

What we sowed

In a moment

Of truth

Last winter.

In a bank of

Snow.





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Love the phrase - "Fiction that We whip into a sauce to rub out the mysteries" You're so very talented, Glen!!

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