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Isabella
Her laugh is the yellow
Lightning on winter nights that floods
The valley's sides, Isabella.
Her breath is pine in the sun
And braised in the rain,
Tide-rush onto rocks. Isabella!
Your heart's thumping like army boots.
Where are you marching your
Unquestioning battalions?
It's time for the truth: Isabella
Doesn't exist outside this poem.
But she doesn't know that yet, nor ever will.
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