Poem -
the last bird to sing
out of sleep I did not come
Easily. I heard the sun.
whispering of bloody things
It turned its face I saw its grin
and vigilant I spend the hours
Taking stock of awful things yet
Terrified again to sleep I dread
the last song blackbird weeps.
M
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Comments
Grief, many forms many metaphors another powerful performance from your ink my dear marion 💜