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Poem: Crisp


slow summer heat
burnt around the edges
crumbling into dust

still Autumn weeps
for fading August heat
keeping secrets to herself

while I linger outside
hoping to catch a glimpse
of you again walking by

knowing it’s impossible
for the dead to walk
or time to freeze fast

leaving me here waiting
for leaves to burn bright
falling into winter night

there is no greater aching
than the empty sorrow
of clinging memory.

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2 responses

  1. yeah, you said it (!) :

    there is no greater aching
    than the empty sorrow
    of clinging memory.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you kindly for taking the time to read my words, and for leaving a comment. It is greatly appreciated!

      Liked by 1 person

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