A Vain Show, and Transitory
All of its nonsense does end here.
World's. Its furthest blown point.
Murky but deathly stilled water's
Of tranquil acceptance.
Even so, which glory, gold leafed
By what hangs and spooks round
Spreads, for ghosts of disillusionment
Cursed sounds. In abundance!
Copyright © James Watkin | Year Posted 2023
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