There’s a damning aura from the flora surrounding me amidst this crisp morning as the birds whisper requiems. On their limbs across the brook I look at the squirrels as they scowl, and later the owls shan’t bat an eye at my bones picked clean and overgrown with weeds next to this gentle west-bound stream where I now lay all alone wondering why it’s getting harder to find genuine warmth in my self-esteem. I toss in the water my dreams like dead leaves and watch them languidly go, with them my every care, every woe. And if they make it to you over there in Oregon, don’t say a prayer for me — I’ll already be gone. Take them out in the sun to dry for all to see; take them and sow their seeds to grow and bleed creative ichor in your own gardens… I’m sorry I didn’t have the strength myself.
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