A Poem A Day, № 8

June 22, 2017

An Exhibition

Trees that sway

Snow that rolls

Grim grey churchyard that stretches to a distant tower

And unreachable hopes

Whispering waves of gold crying



Lone woman hurries head down

Into oblivion

Wishing she could save god from himself

Sweet beauty hangs heavy on our heads

And doom lingers

Long after the last door closes

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