Sad Labels:
dark poems
,
sad poems
,
sad poetry
the rabbit runs through the traps. fretting only the mechanics of his escape. weighted by circumstances of which he knows not.
choice the only architect in the construction of his grief.
the fruit lingers on the vine. ripening still, even as the winter moves to overtake.
the edges are burnt. pages yet unturned. stories ripped from the flesh that made them real.
the rabbit runs through the storm. aching only for passage through its maze.
a box unopened. a question asked without remorse.
a drop of poison perhaps released.
the rabbit pauses inside the mouth of the wolf.
admiring the sharpness of his teeth.
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