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Threadbare
thin moon hangs in the blurring light
when the red tape of work ends
day's end
before darkness darts onto idling pillows
a too slight shine to navigate the strain of living
wounds unstitched
like a heart unhealing from over-crowded transgressions
a feel that's too familiar
nestled in the treads of tired
where we can't always control the skidding
crescent moon
dangling, unsettled in the sky
shrunk in a sparseness of graying
pinched edges from a light threadbare
unable to lift toil from labor's bones
haggling for some salvation
Copyright ©
Brian Sambourne
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