laid my pen to rest,
gave up writing for today,
still these words pour
across my fingertips.
Sleep evades my eyes,
causing a colasol
turmoil within.
I would rather not
write tonight,
because I'm simply afraid
of what the next stanza would say.
Aching for that little sapling to grow
around my aura and essence,
growing weary of the tears and heartache.
Wishing the undertaker
would finish his song
with the broken winged bird-
I just want to go home.
The bird starts to sing,
and the undertaker smiles
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