I see keth

Thou
doth confess
one’s lips
crack:

tis
heat
this
winter

whose need doth dictate the compass towards
said
palms
that beat
dried nordic read -s-

oceans seeking liberty

upon
eyesight
falling
on a
crackled old map

where
old Milky Way bears

obsidian
in
a heartbeat.

I
See
keth
quench
know
not
what.

tis this state I now best.

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