Why Not Write

Shams, I have not written anything in a long time

I filed chapter 11 on passion

I wither on the vine

Dried up plumpness gone raisin, leaves brown and curled in on themselves, thin stalks still hanging by tendrils

This was once a holy place with a honey sweet temple

Doors open wide to let the sun in

Crowds came here in droves to see the goddess

If she is crone now, can she be a maiden again

There are seasons, are there not?

Will spring follow winter, or is it just a steady march down


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