Spring ebb

Wending a way
through the maze of a haze
of thoughts and ambitions
on cold summer days

The buds are announcing
some cycle of doom
that I feel in the aether
but not in my womb

Does the sun think less of me
that I ignore the blush
of pro-recreation
of reasons to touch?

My mind is a Morrigan
three lives but two loves
no room for the mother
when dreams become dust

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