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by Logan
Rated: E · Poetry · Relationship · #2200902
Something penned on a dark Sunday morning earlier this month
Phantom Sundays

6 o'clock in the morning,
4 hours light of sleep,
Morning dew that glistens,
with such secrets souls can't keep

The morning holds its bounty
whilst hearts will hold their fear,
of phantoms wanted, needed,
with spirits far and near

Bequesting more than asked for,
at least in their own way,
Seeking something simple,
with a coward's gambled play

Wanting all the answers,
without such questions asked,
Lost fauna in migration,
mitigation, where its tasked

Living in their own world,
where ever that may be,
Places we can dream of,
yet very rarely see

Reflected in a landscape,
formerly our own,
Not how we intended,
with seeds so errant, grown

Crops drawn to another's sun,
another's wind and rain,
with scarecrows lost, alone... undone,
to different birds that came

Brightly feathered, plumage strong,
too bright for burlap sacks,
stuffed with lies that weather long,
to cover truths we lack

Truths we hide packed deep in straw,
needles... stacks of Hay
Hoping, praying someone finds,
our truths, hid where they lay

Hid for those deserving,
buried for the ones,
for ones that still reserve it,
when they find out how it runs

When they find how much they're trusted,
we hope they know their place,
their place amids the needles,
we hope they like their space

But for all that to happen,
they first must know the game,
the rules, and how they function,
they just don't seem the same

The same with different phantoms,
every ghost has its own set,
I just wish I knew the answers,
to the questions never met

The questions left unqueried,
the questions left ignored,
with exorcisms needed,
and other routes explored

Still, morning light it finds me,
mourning thoughts I didn't heed,
with more than I dared dreamed, deserve,
... and less than what I need
© Copyright 2019 Logan (stipey at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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