Panicked by the loss


There is always
a small betrayal of the mind.
A wash of paint,
that seems to hold the secret.
But there are always
genial poets, presenting
their droplets of language.
Smeared with mud,
and flecks of ash.
Prepared, to ask the stars
why the magpie swirls
And their snug
encasement is strained.
ā€‹

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