Something remains
the fingers in the fields
swimming eyes
follow the valley
to the sea
Dust too light
below the wave
to sink
must at night
find rest
in the shells of time
to think.
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by T.P. Wilkinson / January 12th, 2020
Something remains
the fingers in the fields
swimming eyes
follow the valley
to the sea
Dust too light
below the wave
to sink
must at night
find rest
in the shells of time
to think.
This article was posted on Sunday, January 12th, 2020 at 8:03am and is filed under Poetry.
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