The morning market is closed for the day,
is past and gone, is never to return,
like every thrill was there simply to churn
but not to clarify, nor even flay
the epidermis into a new clay.
The past no longer has to fade or burn
into the quiet, there’s no time to learn
only to go, or merely fail and stay.
The winter blossoms into somber white,
and we gain nothing, we approach no mark
of time, no alteration of the air.
The fear and horror stand just out of sight
waiting with passion the return of dark,
and disappearance of the sweet and clear.
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