Poem: Glade Alone

Originally published in Pyrokinection.

Best to all,

Owl

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Glade Alone

lost snowflakes

walk a graveyard

of marbled spruce.

this kind of death,

unmarked and pure,

never reaches the metros.

when solitude

is your mortician

something has gone right.

when your priest is frost,

and only the moon

grieves.



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