The Sloe

silent shrills
spilled forth like flies
from graves of eager repose

dolent will
crept from her eyes
in waves of welling woe

stoically
a stolen bliss
of esoteric air

stranded long
as loss bestilled
mesmeric songs drew tears

sycamores
loomed nigh as night
blew fickle wafts of clove

trickling
illuminously
from aloft the sloe

Author: Max Meunier

Feminist. Ailurophile. Musician. Poet. Human.

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