In the iron light of winter
not a leaf flapping, not a bird.

Trees here. Trees bare,
all that remains of color.

Something else is alive,
a doe faces me unafraid.

All that remains of words
slipping from its eye corner.

The same loneliness
lifted our weight from the ground.

Blue is the sound
of its breath, but mine is red.

To stay sane
it will never comprehend me.

Condemned
I will never touch its head.

It is just as well.

Livelier, it steps outside
our evil scene.

 

 

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