Dead Poem

This poem is dead.

It wanted too much:

wild strawberries

from a summer marshland,

wild roses

dripping with all the giving

I could not give,

the wild, full moon

kissing the beaten

highway

with numb lips.

It whimpered, finally,

about incurable diseases

and silver

bells

dripping

from wet bones,

the most beautiful song in the world.

(And liquified eyes soak my pillow.)

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