Gray matter like a flotilla

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Gray matter like a flotilla
Embers in the brain

Tendril
Subtle is the language of the night

Careful
The vines can choke
While tossing you
From thought to thought

Gray matter floating like ash
Smelling like burning leaves

Autumn ends

The flotilla? It tends a
New, cold, muse

Flying on icicles
In the snow

Where does the tenderness go
It remains an
Alter ego to the harsh interior
World

Ending ending

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