Poetry – Scarecrow Dreams

Scarecrow Dreams If by night I move without aid, what then? Precious flesh, precious bone, never mine to lose – the difference between nothingness and no thing. A pity that my friends fly at the merest movement, but when the air’s breath stills, they sing and rattle among the grain, scribing their days in song […]

via Scarecrow Dreams — O at the Edges

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