Non-Erotic PoetryDried Summer GrassLives are made of tinder, of dried summer grass.
The fires once lit swiftly consume and blind.
Flames burn fierce but only ashes will remain,
That will dance and make eddies in the wind,
Painting pictures that appear and disappear,
Leaving strange images that hold the mind.
And we, surprised that we survive, softly sit
In the pale morning, waiting for a sign.
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