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In the emollient night of roses and paraffin,

of burning hands and of all that burns

of broken sleep piecing together what for

so long had remained lost of what was lost

not in the dark but in the fire of the dark

in the night and in the oil of the night

of everything you were led to believe in,

everything stays secret until - one morning -

you put your hands through the touch

of the unfinished light and took it back.


Rachael Boast

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