I don't know when it will happen,

or where. Perhaps it will happen,

on a hot afternoon, as streaks of sun

slice open our faces. Shadows of flies

dance their twisted trails on crimson coals.

Or maybe under a canopy of smoky skies,

sharp toothed sapphires striking down,

pelting gentle rolling waves of soft cotton.

As the sharp scents of cinnamon and

of something once forgotten, 

now remembered,

as these

race towards a waiting world. 

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