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The Widow’s Queue

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The street is long paved with silent stones of gone
for the pulse is heavy in this of forgotten bones
the widow’s queue—now rung twice, deceased
in somber shadows, smoking the ash…and I
suffering echo of ghost from her departed soul
the metallic taste of death’s aphrodisiac
stirring my ambrosia, wetting the sheets
of woven linen—threaded with regret
holding on to the corpse, of my insomnia 

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