Micropoetry 4-11-2020

line the roads
as we travel far
for somewhere safe
where we may stay

on the edge
between the rain
she floats with the drops
to a land she cannot see

opium labyrinths
lost in the caverns
before the light runs out

blood lake—
filled to the shore
with run off tears

the scent of her hair
as we sit in the quiet
still in a world
that is not quite warm
and not quite cold

in the stone garden
covered with the moss
of moral decay

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