A bloody horrible routine, but one to grow used to.
And perhaps not considered of grandiose purpose,
on that day, during that year, over that decade.
It is a subtle thing, the creeping of a clock chime,
a different harmony for those who want to listen.
Cycling menses are now paramount, the shine of
potential ebbing as hormones wax and wane in an
There is irony in these thieving, passive years. In
surety of self, desire and circumstance, the renewal
of life is – perhaps – as well placed as any miracle.
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