Reminisce 

No more wine on the night of
unlit fires, solemn passages
and unspoken rites.

A proper wordsmith hidden
in the confines of brimstone.

Pulling feathers back to
expose the youth of sinew,
a fresh flesh prickling anew.

You may burn away with
the dawn of passing age,
but life is but a book, and
you’ve a right to flip the page.

– B.

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