An Anniversary, Quite Contrary
All my flowers have died
dried petals piling by my toes
silver bells have rusted
cockle shells are dusted
and my pretty maids?
they have abandoned their rows...
as the decrepit, bony hand of pain
covers my mouth-
stifling my sorrowful cries
part of me dies again
My entire garden has died
in the ravenous mouth
of September's approach





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