The murmuring flies,

The croaking crows,

The scoffing horses,

Reflect in the rippling daydreams where

I am a dog

Following a cat

Mewing to a mouse

Hidden in the hay

Where sleeps a boy beneath a book,

Ripe with wonder.

My eyes are torn pages

Worn by the wind devouring

Ashes of my mother cast

Unto the meadow, unveiling

A tiny finger bone, it

Once held me as a baby holding

That finger, I held

That finger bone.

I don’t know why I let it go.






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But, the most ancient scrolls are kept on: THE TABLE OF MALCONTENTS



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