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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