Withered.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Old.

Submitted: December 27, 2012

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Submitted: December 27, 2012

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All is sedentary
still as can be
like blood-red cherries
on a dying tree

None is worthy
nothing is free
so what small things
are protecting me

Grasp the memoir
taste of tea
hold it real tight, now
or it will flee

Time's a waste
clockwork spree
so what is it, dear
that you can't see

Autumn leaves
a palpable plea
old house, dark woods
misplaced key.


 


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