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Sweet knives take their due time

carving kisses throughout the rain.

The darkness slices marquees in the sun beams

where the absolute memories have given up their sheen

and the reflections dance near the water's edge.

Their slow pathways are frayed and ripped, scar's edges.

Their shock is controlled,

convoluted memoriam.

Light slices through the crevices in the ceiling

and consumes their final breaths,

fracturing them into oblivion.

Tomorrow rears its vile head, turning, whipping, dragging.

The wine and blood twist through the sky

they're impressionable.

The horses trot along quietly;

they're like packs of wolves howling in the noontime.

Their fangs dig holes in throats, cutting through the blue's veins,

Leaving crescent shaped scars.

They'll never be forgotten.