a bitter tinge in giving up

an underpinning of
cruelty infects the
quiet of the evening
a sallow rot deep in
the marrow of night
floating upon the
shimmering current of
apathetic lethargy
where the images shine
yet no words accompany
the pale pink blossoms
in rows down the orchard
flutter in the breeze
a hearty sigh of
discontented longing
blown across the
cratered face of the moon
causing white caps
far off of the shore

a need for sleep, to dream
to fill this vacancy
enough to propel this
flailing form into
yet another day of
blind servitude crawling
no closer to the summit
of sunkissed promises
just a bed dug six feet
into the worm infested soil
where all souls detangle
a dissipation of light
in a silk lined coffin
too many mile traveled
only to return to the
nothingness from which
we were wrenched unwilling


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