Aftershocks

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Every little aftershock;
Its latest rifts
Into a fragile scenery;
These endless pastures,
A land of undulating flowers;
Remember when
They poured their dew
Into our ticklish cardiac muscles?

Destruction-birth;
The season never changes now.
Movement just for movement’s sake;
Still, shockingly then
Afterwards
When depths shape future countrysides,
I stay unchanged and waiting:
Inside this broken frame.

Enjoy the Poetry of Markus Russin

~ And Poetry After Dark