Finding August in a snow
(flake that pinches tightened cheeks)
plucks an honest, silent woe
that dyes the blue-black-haired in bleach.
Strung amidst the atomic hush,
(words that hide in hunted trees)
one cannot shake the simple must
while moon peels the orange eve.
Those Pisces lips deal heavy hands,
in bandaged, sallow eyes of sleep,
'til sun finds Pisces an empty man,
and little wonders left to keep.
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