by Sarah
I am not aware of where we venture,
Will I arrive or plunge
The divide? That infamous icy mundane,
Of tee shirts and denim.
Try wrench it all apart,
By the close seamed collar
Que: watching a string on its snail route south,
Unfurling- as we are.
Perchance I may like that.
A cotton grey gossamer.
The spool has spun gold and its remnants
Gild the grey.
Light is lustful whilst it’s dancing,
Falling leaves.
My autumn is upon me-
Falling, please.
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