Micropoetry 8-7-2020

we follow the path
where the spirits play
until we see
neither wrong nor right

holding her
thin as light
as she looks
the other way

there is nothing to do
as the world spins
and we lie there
in the softness of a rug

until the final shade
has sipped the moments of light
we fall into the soft-touch fade
of the arms of night


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