morning turns up
the nights rushed afterthought
fallen
off
sleeps cluttered table
grey leftovers
trapped under a single dull bulb
and i can hear the birds arent keen either
beige blips on the bare branches
of small silhouette trees
surround the broken fence farms
they harvest fireworks and xmas trees in the garish winter
the soft town is all bad stone today
its
complications
audibly
grind
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