Details

Take Ides of March, my foe,

In revelry and feast above all,

Let the slaying for the dusk.

Never mind the tremor of the sigh,

I belong still to the quiet hands

Of some blind root that keeps

Love inside cork-lined mornings.

I shall peel off layers of affectation

Before the blade pierces the core

And the pleasing nature of absent

Things, fills the contemplating eye.

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