0	With no advantage
0	The gilded fear that guides the flow
0	Of everything that rhymes
0	Is in its clearest form
0	An image apart from ourselves
0	Whose palms create
0	As would a weaver
0	A shade of celadon
0	So etched in memory
0	Upon the break arch
0	That wounded weathered
0	Shut-ins on Sunday see
0	The very edge of its flame
0	And relent

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hyperzine

Sonnet