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world-weary, by Odysseus Yong

Though years of separation stand between,
You and I, dear, are not hopeless.
We are not a little broken, no, only a little,
resigned — and too far away.

Distance is factor, you reckon,
One that most certainly will
Render our passions impotent:
Scarlet sails furled in closet,
Curfew imposed on our selves.

We are, dear —
just slaves to schoolboys’ maps.
Silk Way’s withered with tracks of your tears.

’86

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