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 Nov 2021 Fenna Capelle
Mist, dew and rose.

Three songbirds rose
Their wings quiet—
Weaved a riot—

Breath, then bone and blood
Whispered to noise from, for mud
Let them grieve, let them—
Yet another young note
On the hard-baked stem.
Restrained do not

Nor bleed or melt a flushed blue
Pearly melodies of sky
Do no do, do not do

Ask of liberty—
Pretty, petty property.
What of birds?
Clumsy drip-dropping words

Only a breath weeps
Only bone shakes
All ballads, the blood keeps
Only the carcass wakes

And silent, silent goes
Into the blooming blue goes—
With a suitcase in the hall
the lady is leaving, Sunday
mingled in her uncertainty
is a goodbye to all those morrows,
with lush eyeliner,
she said she was a stranger to love
and in the morning,
she returned to her child within,
and in her sad longing
the rain relented.
When was the last time we had a sweet conversation?
I look out into the open air
Trying to have not a worry or a care
Yet in the back of my mind
I try to leave my worries behind
Letting them flutter away
Allowing them to escape
Out into the open air
Taking in the moments
Embracing them all
Not succumbing to the
Negative falls
lying on the bed,
reminiscing our first kiss
awkward but the best.
 Apr 2020 Fenna Capelle
The sorrow we display reflects the sympathy we have, and reflects the shattered vision of a world we will yet have. Our despair is the inverted image of our nobility.
 Apr 2020 Fenna Capelle
I cannot compose brilliant poems, sonnets, or verses,

and I cannot speak to you in Latin or Greek;

I cannot move you with any language made up by man.

Love is the only only language I could touch you with

If you only knew how much I could love you.

If you knew I love you;

If I were brave enough to tell you at all.
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