A night down from the mountains

When the rain comes,
and come it will.
The northern souls,
on a wilder more
confident stream.
Will raise their flags,
and throw away their
death poppies.
And speak of a future,
of spirits storming
the blank walls.
The bedroom nights,
will fill with glistening softness.
That echo long in the mind.
And eyes will find each
others flesh, all over again.

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