First Letters
Out of the wind,
the brown carpet is marked
prosaic like petals swept away
My snowdrops weltering in the winter
not even dead heading
can help their blind eye stalks
I feel like a pebble
roughened at the edges
and Im gifting no one
Mother nature has unearthed me
My eyes remain shut
I finger past the muddy morass
I feel blazed over
from the cityscape of lingering dreams
Not even the recurring home
joyous and warm
feels my pockets
I am a sunbaked bun
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