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a poem
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Love,
what do I know of love?
I only know longing,
the yearning of my needs
and emptiness in my soul
Yet, once, I wandered up on
a blood root bloom, an herb
opening upon the forest floor,
of white so pure it startled
and life so brief
I could only gasp
Innocence itself,
giving for its own sake
Then
I was struck
by love
simply lived
by Elizabeth M. Cheatham
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