Cherries In the Attic
These dreams, always gnawing and cold.
So fleet and free like a rabid mountain stream.
I'm always pursued, then over run.
Tormented and torn to tidbits.
Bitten on the neck by death.
A lone glass cherry left to die.
At the bottom of a black goblet night.
The sun usually arrives on time.
Gleaning black nesses and rabbit screams.
From this cherry stained attic of a dream.
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2017
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