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I have become the dry leaf,
condemned by Autumn to be red and gold,
until the white night gently falls.
My beginning lies buried beneath me,
and my end, but a whisper,
that only the still and silent will hear.
Life has become a gentle pounding on the outside of the house,
and I an observer of beauty,
no longer a participant.
Too much bandage,
not enough skin,
too much to hang on,
where we’ve all been.
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