"in the lowest light"
she will not leave the house today.
her, the daytime poet.
her, the evening statue.
her, the nighttime dead.
bitterly written words
give way to a malice that
never takes shape. & so
her eyes get lost, her
teeth clamor.
a crow sits upon a branch
staring into at her unused
fireplace. it only believes in
omens found in piles of
dead leaves.
she sits unfed and emotionless
staring at an old white willow tree.
a staleness, rather a stillness of
winter air, sits like an irritable
sorrow.
alone she responds to her emptiness,
her fits of decay. as the sleeping stars
lay flat across the sky the dying rays
of sunlight seem useless to her lifeless
eyes. her pen scribbles the traits of a
crying thing that will never have a name.
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