Poetry · Writing

Strange Things

Oh we had some good times.

Running threw untrimmed meadows

laughing, laughing until our cheeks

turned red as lips.

Than, oh than the he blew through

the ceiling like a cyclone.

I found the shelf under my ass,

watching the light come through as

fragments dreaming of the real thing.

Dust mites came,

swarmed the finished wood,

to keep me warm through the winter.

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