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Memoirs

MEMOIRS

A story or two
They’d tell out
These folded fingers
If gifted a fresh blush of
Lips, palate, tongue

A blessing this perhaps
Or rather more a curse
Or better still the both
A confession, an absolution
Each sat astride its mirror

Hubris swallowed, spat out
These crablike fingers
Clutching at straws
While nearby a camel
Patiently awaits a breaking

Oh, what a story
They would spill
Then two then three
Then four than five
These mottled fingers

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