The horizon echoes an apology,
fractured into shards of light
and salted-clouds.
The wind carries ardor,
its edge sharper than a knife—
folding rivers into oceans,
mountains dissolving into ash.
Crows circle overhead,
their wings slicing through
the fabric of dampened skies,
weaving threads amidst eclipse.
Here, on this crumbling
edge of earth, what grows
is not meant to be beautiful.
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