Elegy To a Hanged Man In Birds Hill Park
And if the winter comes
It will come too soon for autumn
But a branch shall be the angel’s arm
To raise me from the bottom;
I shall not sink into the snow
Nor feel the winter’s dark white breath
For here my eyes shall always open
To the sun; it, to my death.
Copyright © Garth Von Buchholz | Year Posted 2016
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