Sunday, March 20, 2016


The roots to the past are blind,
The darkened roads will wind,

The roots are pulled up by the warden,
Like a carrot in the autumn garden,

I hold up my roots strong and tall,
But I’ve never healed my past at all,

When you were a kid and her and her and her before,
Is replaced by gossip and we cover mouths and, ignore,

She has been the one dying,
I’m the only one crying,

As she slips away into my dreams,
Stretching my intuition at the seams,

It’s the only time our stories are told,
And we close our eyes like the old,

Lady who we morn for today,
The otter in my dreams at play,

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