In Another Life
There is nothing but the rustle of husks
in the cornfield today - empty stalks stripped bare
by the machinery and melancholy of man.
Whiskied whispers are the call of the black bird
pessimistic parasites with voices too hoarse to comprehend,
and so I cease to listen - ignore your gravelled song
as the pebbles raise the level in your cup.
Instead I drink sweet tea in the shade and dream.
I wait for sundown and thunder,
and content myself with thoughts of the sea.
Poetry
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