The Way Home


from mySElf

SHe isn ‘t

pIrATEd my thougHTs
PU t tHeM in

the Bi n

anD MY bOdy is G onE
far FrOM Her puLL,

a FRAil flowEr i n

a bRawliNG
b u ll

or mitig aTINg sELF deniAls
WIth SweET hel los

at DAwN, At dusK,
t hE evEning goEs

THen thE PAnic Set s

anD i tR y tO

whERe  she’ S eFFINng gone
in the Bl oody night

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry


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