I apologize that I’m only now getting to writing part five of the recent series of posts: it has been an unusually trying weekend, with some difficult, taxing, and painful choices that I really didn’t want to be confronted with making, and some that I have yet to make. Here is part of the fruit.
The trees lean to the setting sun,
salute and dismiss; soft shadows lament
the commute of their sinister cousins, who run
from their holding cells, with malintent.
The midnight-rot weeds-out the glow
that clings to the leaves; wind grows cold,
and the shivering spreads ‘cross the grass,
which huddles in fear, and then retracts
from life, under the shadow, marching bold.
The birds are wise: at these portents, flee
with the sun that processes across the sea
while the dark, in pursuit, stalks hungrily.
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