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Far Farm

On the far range alone

Behind thistle and haystacks bundled neatly into cylinders

Lanterns light guiding home

To miss a little; long for a lot, whittled wood into thin air

Small objects of the mind are

Memories.

They can’t be bought but we do share

Statutes of limitations demanding that…

I forget you.

I don’t care to follow the rules

If for fools

Love’s folly

Small statues to commemorate become burning effigies

Sting worse than the redness of my eyes or the tears of this legacy

Left to me or left me

Bereft it unsettles me

In death to lie peacefully

Awake in life, still a piece of me

To go beyond this far range and be gone

The ghost of you right next to me

I scream at the wake of dawn

Dreams of our far farm

© The Sad Owl

Categories: poetry

Tagged as:

The Sad Owl

I'm just here. Until I'm not.

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