Fields
Adrift again in fields of forgotten namesMemories of a gift lost inside the lines and places
Festive flames burn high light up the circus towns
Pink and purple painted red roses on eyes and faces
Simple games to try night spills out unformed clowns
They sift through sand that yields lots of tiny grains
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
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Written on 2021-11-24 at 07:30
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