A Widow’s Whisper washing Me in Worry

 

The wasted spaces that fill the places,

On the road to desperate ice cream flavours,

Where the darkness that loves you

Admits that to love you, is to kill you.

Shadows, shards and silhouettes,

They are not what I was intending,

But the original, organised disorder,

Governs contradictory clowns,

To bend stone and bruise banes

Of forlorn forest Faeries.

Sympathy in symmetry with nonsense,

Not dissimilar to the needy and greedy;

Unfamiliar liars who claim to know.

 

 

 

That should keep them guessing…

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