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David Apr 2014
Drown me with flowers though,
Drops jump,
Falling all over the pedals,
They are lost things,
And screens as starlight pulls these like paintbrushes,
Fingers of bristles leaving traces of them,
Encircling a rusty city with dew,
Putting out fires in some places,
Watering others,
For the smell of rain is swallowed up by memories,
Then spat out by storms,
Let us have a moment of silence for the gardens in them,
They wither away like pictures in shoe boxes,
Collecting dust,
Then thrown into fire,
This is my witness-
I am a desperate man in these modern landscapes

— The End —