Huddled at the feet of his addled brain,
The poet awakes under blanket of night
From a smothering will to convulsively clutch at love,
His borrowed time winding and
Wilting like choking shrubs
At a river of black waters from swollen eyes.
What dark and morbid thoughts art these, whispered on a moonless winter night, loud with barking dogs frowning at lost ghosts? What of the...
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