Thursday, June 9, 2011


As the daylight wanes
and yet a little remains for poetry,
whispers grow amid the aspens
this autumn.

Their pale skeletal arms
seemingly affirms the contrast

between reality and deception.
I hear them talk about me,
about you

about the blushing eastern sky,
yet all that I'm left with: a hint
of lonely breeze

a leaf floating over minute ripples,

a drop of blood
spilled from memory.

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