poetry

Up On Broomhill

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Blacks clouds crackle like static

And cause my roses to wilt and waste away,

So instead of picking flowers

I end up raising the dead

Who ride on the wind

To arrive like thieves at my door.

I am almost tempted to let them in,

But they’d only turn to dust

To dance and swirl in the cracks of my castle

And sing from the shadows on lonely nights.

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