Silver ink flowed through September's veins
and bled, finally, at her finger-tips.
She had pricked herself on the red thorns
of that blue 8th day rose, and,
sweetly suckling on her scar,
sunk far beyond tenebrous skies.
No moon could find her then,
no matter how it waxed or wailed,
smeared red in October's blood...
... And the pines, they grew -
as seeds do germinate in spring.
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