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The Road From Here
A long straight climb that gives nothing back,
to stop a moment and look around. Trees
and fields surround the sunlight that gives
no warmth. To the body climbing
in winter. All colour is faded, colder
to sight, as cold as touch. As cold as
a conversation between broken lovers.
Waiting for the end. Wanting more
from the other. Not looking forward
to what they have. To the end of the climb
that is in sight. If only we could look up.

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