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twelve ten eleven

i sit here alone

in a quiet house

already a-slumber

staring out into the

Christmas-tide darkness

wondering

as usual

how many years

it will take

for our

paths to intersect

and run

the same direction

it’s not pretty

being green

and it ain’t easy

being grey —

i hope you don’t

mind the

colloquialism —

i imagine

you don’t like

this either

or maybe you

do

maybe you

have the attitude

i’m missing

at the moment

that all is beautiful

in time

perhaps we’ll

find this again

in a hundred years

and say

look how silly

you were

so young

but so old

so let it be

for tonight

the lamplight

outside my window

is glowing

golden.

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