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As I walk through your cherished gardens,

I stumble and break one of your primrose pots.

You cry and curse me as I mumble apologies.

I'm fearful. Your temper is so. You are more malign

When quiet than when shrieking, and now

You're deathly still. You carry an iron rod coated

With rust. It decays, as they say, from the tears

Of your foe. I keep my voice down lest I anger you.

Getting meself caught in your rage is like being

In the eye of a storm. Goddamn whoever offends

You. They bring forth a calamity. Skies scream as

You wail. Your agony and wrath are causes for concern.

I wonder wherefore the once comely woman has

Vanished. I find no vestige of her in you. But perhaps

When I broke your primrose, I might have broken 

Your heart too, thus rendering you heartless. What

Can I say? It was a mishap; one I sincerely regret.

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