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Sep 2017
Sleepy willows,
Termite-hollowed,
Fall on down
In the forest air.

There they lay,
There they lie,
A stagnant existence
Full of unspoken sighs.

Mud-bathed,
Once up high,
Servant to the season’s shifts,
Even they must die.

In dying bring life
In life more death,
Respiration receiving,
Their last relieving breath.
This theme and motif
Have been done
And done before.

So you get a kind of an encore,
The day's labeled lazy,
My mind's hampered, hazy,
But I'll pick these dead leaves up,
Off this sun-patched floor.
Randall Walker
Written by
Randall Walker  22/U.S.
(22/U.S.)   
334
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