What’s Left

There is no more; seas filled with blood,

we let the canary fly free, light and lithe,

it drew uncaptured, with grace like leaves,

we watched crying: clasped; drunks at port,

in the wicked winter, winds eat your soul,

but this morning, spring cast its shadow,

across each dogwood, fountains of life,

saturated magnets, wooded sprouts gloss,

sun warm like first loves, our discontent

a memory defunct, we held high our cup,

wishing for our worth, again travelers,

again lovers, again sinners, again dyers

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~ by Shawn M. Young on May 2, 2018.

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