Out of a dream,
I woke into melancholy.
A doorway was sealed
with spider webs—
A tomb to enter,
a stone to roll away?
Weak light washing
the feet of morning.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Out of a dream,
I woke into melancholy.
A doorway was sealed
with spider webs—
A tomb to enter,
a stone to roll away?
Weak light washing
the feet of morning.
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