when happiness rots around us


so much is going,

the rust routes are


and consider archives

as their own wither


the sky’s broken air,

so full of tears once

as we were

this world

does not allow sunshine

but roots are comfy

in their cellar deeps

sleep as opaque as

deafening dreaming,

we list into the numbness

of trying

i do not soar well these

lying days, do not comply

with taxed winter, there’s

many a bough of slumped


tho that wing is crippled

and stars lean into dark

autumn is many of us

dealt within eyes as blows

we nudge thru’ minutes

no stride can hurry us

beyond that grey inspected


where crows are often

and sorrow shrill

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