there used to not

be the grey rim of



or the silver moonlight trapped in

SEAfoam rushing in to end upon a sunless shore.

a part of the deserting hair gone

AWOL from the follicle fence function that at dawn was a firm arrogant line


now minutes after noon, just a whispered second over rise of day constructs a noir riche rude fade as poor as its soft disappearance from 4head, temple and nape.

And the hair has parted in a dull whimper of prestidigitation, a minstrels slight of a white gloved sambo hand, and not the lions ROAR on gnats wings men conger potions and moans to undo and  as I try to follow the wind to glean where the hair goes and does not go to reside without me i come to accept alas @g3

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