Most pictures and words from Anthony C Murphy

Tuesday, 16 October 2012


Your cold voice calls at four in the morning
Through the gap I had left for night's stale breath
Before sun or gulls' elemental yawns
You drunkenly whisper of death

And take me with you this rotten harvest
Bury us deep slow the blood in our chests
We sleep 'til spring leans its leaves to the wind
Green in our dreams free of care

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