the tangles in thy hair become riddles insolvable
by their doting fingers;
by their restatutions made by the hopeful stares
into thy eyes. about when the sun settles in its place
thy skin will become the zenith upon which their glares
settle, where they allows thy paleness to bathe
in their troubled misery. thy feet come leaping
over their dire lappings and into puddles
where once again thy legs clench from the chill
of the still water and their forever moving hands.
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