Anna, if I may call you that: 

Of the many paintings hung, your searing stare stole me,

Though I know not what your story held,

I could tell, those eyes dipped in ink, cut with facets of intrigue—

You were only welcoming to those deserving.

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I have burned so long                       too long.

threshing paths

grinding hope

head bowed    limbs slack

I ask   I ask

peel back this mortal bind 

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If the sun touches you before I do, If the air enters you before I do,

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