Creepers sweep the arched roof
and the brick exposed walls
of a cottage,
becoming like a jungle temple in the sticky summer air,
moist and humid, it sinks into legend
autumn red now,
thick,
like veins,
they stretch
an exercise in constriction,
“we’ll choke this creature dead!” each leaf whispers,
evil in the winter wind, as they sleep and dream of ruins.
and down at the lake, below thin surface tension,
(more solid now that at any time before)
fat slate fish glide, catching currents, holding on,
to be heaved, their dorsal fins like fanned tongues lapping arctic rime.















Comments
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Fuselit
Mimesis
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Support ~onewordatatime and *suture
aside from that i think that i am doing better than usual and i have more poetry to put on soon
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Support ~onewordatatime and *suture
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peeling onions gave me an excuse to cry.
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Support ~onewordatatime and *suture
read one, read twice, it shall never suffice!
so what do you way, why do you say what you say, and why do choose not to slip back into it?
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