even a world
spun out of the
purest silk
adorned with
the most precious
of stones can
be shattered
by a summer wind
whose ill temper
cares not for
the promises
of spring

misfortune comes
to bring
fate’s heartless blade
to slice and dice
by endless cuts
the body
of meaningful
whose hasty
it forestalls

the storm
that chaos brings
is swift
turning day to night
with but a moment
arriving as cold
as a daggered hand
to reap havoc on
on a well made bed
once shaped
to invite comfort
– now, no more –

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