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Dark Horizons

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A razor’s edge of memories
obsidian is dust,
a mote of gray now an ash
that blows away,
spilling dawn to another day.

The sharpest glass must shatter,
losing its bite to the wind,
as the dark horizon bleeds into light.

What was once a monument of shadows
scatters across the threshold of morning,
clearing the path
for a sun that does not remember the night.

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