emily's song

. . . and then there were you said the vices . . . so many
to become that much a part of me.
You learned to know me but for all I am . . . these bitter spices. . . me . .

Who has become so much a part of what you call there is
and what is not nor even meant;
who sounds the key to your lament.

. . . Would they were gone and I re-named
exorcised in smoke rings spun on sunlit air
to disappear in weightless light up there

thy will be done; then harvest what remains
(the birth of endings dressed in snapshot shades
of sepia tones trapped in gold nostalgic frames)

None cannot be undone without some corollary stain.