Lies
The last of the wildflowers stand like knights in a moat on my woodstove, cut by the sword of a gentle flame in a green grove. When are they going to harvest the corn? The sun is so warm he’s deceitful. The horse sways its tail at the remaining flies, the lies autumn makes. Published in Compass Rose Literary |
Artist: "Jenni" Guinevere von Sneeden, @guinevere.von.sneeden
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