That which alights horizon of sweating swevens,
Connecting its bow to rain collected below,
Buttercupping awe across pool’s static still—
Like the grace of a tear running a chinned cheek
As it limns balm upon morbidezza’s fallen face—
Finds, in its terrestrial tattoo, an oneiric offspring,
An iteration of itself as fleeting as a held blink,
Yet sincere enough to assure that it—as ink’s imago—
Holds worth—in space of its breaking, bonding mercy. ; )
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