The delicate taste of harrow

There is a tick at the back of my mind

the canny unruly and ahead un-behind

and the frost among the lilies lie

with ashes and spit among the blind,

to what may ask becomes of them

when the haunting and furrows have been fed

the skin a crawl over depths and halls

crying souls ease from out their bed,

its the waking of these that are so blind

too late to hear among their calling

when the depth of tears are fluttering

and the words as embers adrift in falling,

standing hear I remember the well

where we sat at the eve on the morrow

hands entwined as vines upon lattice

filling grapes by the glass with sorrow.

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