The Path

It never happens at the call of the moon,
The crust of dawn ever watching,
Nor the blush of leaves from green to brown,
This flourishing happens quietly.

A peaceful pact of one-to-one,
Laying plans at their feet,
Collecting dreams like acorns,
And planting them deep.

A promise that’s sworn in blood,
The marrow of their bones attests,
To good, or bad, or broken,
Born anew once more.

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