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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Nature · #2203574
Our visions for the future are fading fast in a dying world.

Through your hair swiftly blows a lifetime,
as you hold your hat,
dream with scalp a-tingle nourishing
soft hope.
Eyes gleam, see eternity.
Ghosts do scalp
a silver, stubbled man in tattered overcoat,
nourished on hard cider.
Dull eyes only see
The past.

Over all shoulders
and across the sea
we swam —
         some drowned
on dry land.
Backs to the future,
we climbed down
bare trees --
winter ourselves
in white blankets
with invented
silver visions
dreamt for us.

Beneath boughs,
a clutter.
The last apples lay,
as no creature devours
the rot we left.
Beneath the ground we sleep
tomorrow, all the tomorrows
forgotten, rest unlike the years
we dread -- the end.

"Redacted Poet, Minimalized In A Growing Tree
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