Mar 2018
the last word falls
like a mountain on a dove
a shadow on a child
a bullet through a rose
and no-one knows
quill rests between cold fingers
the ink
is dry
like a mountain on a dove
a shadow on a child
a bullet through a rose
and no-one knows
quill rests between cold fingers
the ink
is dry
oldie
(M/New Market, Va)
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