The night retreated
in drowning grey,
a curtain call to morning
she yearns to curtsie
but is crippled
with a broken bough
the storm had left her sightless
struck by love and nightingales
that cease to stay and sing
much longer
than for sundown's song
no place to soothe
her ravaged soul
her april treasures
left just leafprints,
as they'd abondonned
on the sycamore
several storms ago.
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