Alone

Outside the dreary
Window, the bleak
World is ensconced
In the tears of memories
Best left forgotten.
Or, is that the rain, instead of sorrow
Dripping down the nose of the garden gnome
That was left out
In the dark
With a stick as his shovel, never
To serve a purpose
Except, maybe to lie
In the torrential downpour, pretty
As a flower?





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