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Something penned on a dark Sunday morning earlier this month |
Phantom Sundays 6 o'clock in the morning, 4 hours light of sleep, Morning dew that glistens, with such secrets souls can't keep The morning holds its bounty whilst hearts will hold their fear, of phantoms wanted, needed, with spirits far and near Bequesting more than asked for, at least in their own way, Seeking something simple, with a coward's gambled play Wanting all the answers, without such questions asked, Lost fauna in migration, mitigation, where its tasked Living in their own world, where ever that may be, Places we can dream of, yet very rarely see Reflected in a landscape, formerly our own, Not how we intended, with seeds so errant, grown Crops drawn to another's sun, another's wind and rain, with scarecrows lost, alone... undone, to different birds that came Brightly feathered, plumage strong, too bright for burlap sacks, stuffed with lies that weather long, to cover truths we lack Truths we hide packed deep in straw, needles... stacks of Hay Hoping, praying someone finds, our truths, hid where they lay Hid for those deserving, buried for the ones, for ones that still reserve it, when they find out how it runs When they find how much they're trusted, we hope they know their place, their place amids the needles, we hope they like their space But for all that to happen, they first must know the game, the rules, and how they function, they just don't seem the same The same with different phantoms, every ghost has its own set, I just wish I knew the answers, to the questions never met The questions left unqueried, the questions left ignored, with exorcisms needed, and other routes explored Still, morning light it finds me, mourning thoughts I didn't heed, with more than I dared dreamed, deserve, ... and less than what I need |