Lighting from a dry sky to the living eye, scrape marks left when we die
Letters fall in drops of words forming streams into puddles of nouns and verbs
Mirror reflections, what's left becomes right and what's right becomes wrong
In feather scratches on wooden pages dead thoughts are pushed along
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Author:
sorenbarrett (
Online) - Published: August 23rd, 2025 03:22
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
- Users favorite of this poem: Salvia.S 🌹
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