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To be punished in silence, is to die.


I rid myself of dust, and parts, and hearts, I tend not need.

I kid myself that kindness feeds the soil and dirt, beneath.

The roots and weeds that strangle life from green on glossy leaves.

The weeds resent the branches in the folds of redwood trees.


Seasons leaves fall desperate, a husk of knowing grows.

Today, tomorrow, yesterday, to lie to now, seed sewn.

The weeds will come, their knots undone, the soil will feed and know.

That redwood trees with folds and leaves have twisted branches home.

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