while sitting under the
weight
of slights real or imagined
i noticed the scenery never
changed
unless you count the loss of
color
leaves on slate trees, gray
like
elderly skin, and just as
thin
as mine
flutter about this patch of
ground
i chose to sit upon
what i believed i must trust
was a bust.
and my soul
turned red with rust.
so i dig a hole in the shade
to bury this picture of you
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