Coated Pine

December 21, 2017
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Dark moon, do sing to me softly
Night so cold and wary
Does not know of voice so fond
Please sing to me, I beg
For the softness of the brindle
The bramble of your tone
Leaking dew of morning
Into night
Morning sun makes no dent
In cold sheet, white, covered
Across the valley, across the road
Into the sky,
Into the core.
Jingle of the birds and the mice
Crawling, craving, waiting.
A chance to sing and scream
And laugh
Tis the season
The season of pure
Raw
Reality






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