of terra-cotta death.

left in shards of broken self

of worn out, wounded skin

in mirrored mirth of dried out hopes

and shriveled life within

hollowed walls of tried and fail

of brittle empty bones

on flatly lined black troubled clefs

in echoed haunting tones;

still thin hands lie open yet

in placid mired sill

of dried up tears and whispered dreams

lay lost alone

-and still.




About lifeofawillow

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