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Persephone's Gloves

Trapped in the casual
massacre of a deep rest,

cold footprints in the snow follow
her wherever she goes

a midnight fog taps the thin
glass of her prism,

she waves,
it winks

a mystery exit and she
promises to write

if it keeps whispering
the litany of cruel secrets;

when the fog that is not fog
kisses her, she smiles and

tries not to
cry too loud.

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