And now, the secret symbols of our destinies
Lay written in a long-forgotten wood
Where few will ever go, as unexpressed unease
Hangs o’er us, everywhere, misunderstood
Like history, not told to us complete or real,
Like all around, when none around can see,
The mulch that soon will cover all our modernness,
The path of overgrowth that’s destiny.
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Tagged: Tags Poetry
Published by Beleaguered Servant
Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.
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