A Book That Has Not Been Read

The red dust of a deserted mind
Flies in the face of the dead man
Loops of gold and a book that has not been read
A cord attached to the navel
And a morning without end

If the spires that remind of piercing light
Do not rise, are not built
Then memories of a family line
Settle in hardened layers upon guilt

Twice, a branch, three times
A path
To the construction that restores
Hope is at the pinnacle
While loss turns into more


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