Precious are days standing up straight like the stems from lilies
grooming, only to be asked to die unbroken by precarious ghosts.

Precious is anything that’s been a prism for the corners of escape
scapegoat pockets of leaking light, a hallway of nothingness, vanishing.

Precious is the sound of  await, longing a million years of drunkard youth
spoken through a crystal ball of “us” as a misnomer and the law caging “you.”

Precious is receiving letters and reading them in the stricken enlighten covers
of a slang, then it would be word of how it matters, while it can’t describe want.

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