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dancing amidst the burning photographs
between the ghosts of smoke
we do not stumble on the fallen leaves
we are a leap into perfumed instant
we are a push away from stillness
the lit hours and the quiet dark
the comet swing around memory
we become the light we lived by
and in our burning light the way
for others who call us yesterday
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Cool. Extremely cool. The comet swing around memory . . . dancing among the burning photographs . . .really great lines in this. I'm glad to see that it's part of a series.
