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Dec 2013
fields are dry now.
air coarse with
echoes of husks
scratching in
a breeze of fire.

peeling crackle
mocks love that
for a time created
lushness.
the bursting
laughter of the earth
scorched to ****
and bone.

rhythmic creak of
wood underneath
was a simple thing.
the sky was pink
and then his eyes
saw nothing.
Porter
Written by
Porter
684
 
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