Bright Shoulders

Cold flowers bow their heads
to the slowly passing despair,

How it remembers of times
deserted like the wharves of dawn,

Lamenting with the lonely sea
howling at the pale sands,

Tossing and turning thoughts
on the breaking waves,

Red flashes across a hand that
caresses the empty air,

Dreaming under a cold sun of
the rags, the rags,

Now tucked up with bright shoulders
on the resting dust,

Coloured with the deep years of
working at mourning,

Trapped by great lost boughs
unable to move,

Wrapped, tangled vines holding on
to a voice of love,

Creeping to a heavy heart that
cannot let go.



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