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in a sleepy forest of light
whispers a flood of shadows.
beneath a sea of mist,
screams a delirious vision.
music bitterly swims
behind a languid blue moon.
with one lovely, sad moment
wind dreamily sings
in the watery void
as life is rained into
a rusty winter garden.
death felt like
an elaborately manipulated road trap:
never trudged on
but still it moans,
frantically aching.
not from time
or falling in;
but because it is raw,
as if lying crushed under
and ripped out of
the delicate, blood red storm
that is beating withing my breast.