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Aug 2020
A silence consumes the cold depth of winter,
I wonder will death be as silent as dusk?
A cold room unlit in shadow
Winter holds the the small death of loss.
The cold comes taking birds with it.
Finches and sparrows nettled in branches,
Worry for the hawks ravaging claw.
In dusk I leave no trace my shadow.
My spirit gone to wind by dawn.
This is a poem of growing older. Dusk and winter are powerful representations of dying.
Written by
TJ Struska
82
 
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