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Poem 2

By
the loving bird of mourning;
the sweet song of harrowing.
comfort always there to those
surrounding a cold stone—
long into the night and beyond.

they don’t choose to have it there
but it just appears. Free Will.
it knows when to arrive—
blank, black, bold.
like the grim reaper.

it is fitting though.
a sweeter version of the
cloaked figure. something
to smile at in the graveyard.

after a patch of time
it flutters away softly,
leaving the family to its own devices.
are they better?
possibly.





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