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The greying morning

Barked like a dog

Trapped in a well

A sound so hollow

It shattered glass

In the cabinet where

She kept her memories

Tied in knots


The braying moon

Shone silver needles

Into the face

Of the weeping child

Screwing its hooks

Into soft flesh

Making the lanterns

Quiver with rage


In the ragged garden

Tendrils of hope

Wrapped themselves

In blood and gore

A knife with the edge

Honed in decay

Cut deep scars

On well worn tracks


And the giggling brook

Spilled over the edge

Of considered reason

Making damp

The parched earth coffins

That played on the shadows

In the sunlit pastures

Where doubt scuttled


And there we stayed

Saying it would be fine

That reason would come back

And lay its soothing hand

On the fevered brow

But it wasn’t

and it didn't

And she never returned


◄ Dead Leaves

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