clarity's mirror
On the 11th of this month, you died in 1253.
You were 59. As am I.
My eyes hurt. Doubts wound, cloud them.
I am often mindless.
Panic is my nausea.
I heard an echo and followed it here.
Singing.
There is no mouth to this Laud.
It is a mirror, held to the lips of the dying.
That is, to us all.
On the 11th of this month, you died in 1253.
You were 59. As am I.
My eyes hurt. Doubts wound, cloud them.
I am often mindless.
Panic is my nausea.
I heard an echo and followed it here.
Singing.
There is no mouth to this Laud.
It is a mirror, held to the lips of the dying.
That is, to us all.
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