Black Fingered Pond
Again, death swirls its black finger
around the aura of pristine ponds.
Now sprouting the stoutest weeds...
where sleepy lilies and emerald songs used to breathe.
Where souls once rested so naturally.
Again, death swirls its black finger.
Leaving me slightly paler than a happy life.
I'm never quite as fleet as death,
(a party balloon popped by a dying cigarette...
the darkest swayback horse at best).
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2014
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