The Writer's Life: Film & Book Reviews, Observations, and Stories
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Last Sunset

At his high window
The sun is hollow now
Drier than parchment,
Deader than an old man’s fart,
It glints off a solitary crow
Crossing the sky
The last vestige of light
As his breath comes in tatters
And a shadow of moon rises
At the ravelled edge of night.

November 5, 2010   Comments Off on Last Sunset