Constance La France's Gate or Gates Contest...7 Jul 25...'there are gates of a season that close the chains of grief...' by poet
In ghostly white of midnight as sky- shadows trace gossamer streaks , I become a recluse, losing tracks of stars' grave hues and the flavor of meadows in snow grows bitter...the bronze gate reeking of metal cold, again --frozen like my rusty, numb thoughts. Must I remember how they were slain? The wails come to haunt those Godforsaken eves when the lane flooded groaning voices, ramming our old grills from darn collision of cars--- in a flash. And now, dim clouds reflect frozen bodies of kin like grief stricken portraits , pale as folded , bloodied sheets... and I turn away from this mashed scene on a vintage gate, grating flesh in drills of shock ...my recluse core, seething ' Leave me alone...'
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