Entree
The gorse withers on the ground
The Sun is autumnally thin
Silence ties in blue
Those roughshod days
are scattered with the leaves
Schemes are forgotten
Feelings disposed
Into the chamber of nothingness
do we ascend
Lamenting
Guitars are trickling
And the lamp lightly lit
We have come to dream
Copyright © Antony Glaser | Year Posted 2024
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