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Cold Cockles

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Within me dwells the brine of the deep,
the biting, crystalline chill of cold cockles
and the hollow, haunting presence
of a ghost that refuses to fade
into the silence of the tide.
I am the rosary of the ark,
a series of sacred beads,
strung together by a desperate faith,
anchoring the rift of a sanctuary
into a forgotten shore. 

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