paper canvas rows these words
black splatters on a tattered sheet
filter out the weeds and roots
from gardens where
little birds eat the new seeds
gold beaks and black feathers
hours spent drinking old flames
drawing birds with rings and cages
writing poems until the trickle dies
from that overgrown othered land
of flickering light and inspiration
one more slipping through the door
and then i could sleep
for ages and ages
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