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After Hieronymus Bosch

Rating: 5.0
The day exits through dusk, the sun on hills
Angry at its going. Briar and brush,
In death, like spring against the twill of fields,
Through limbs and leaves amid hunger and hush,
Obey the wind on whims of winter's will.
Old men sigh in the shade; God wags his beard;
And like a Judas goat before the kill,
Time buries its head in the wake of fear.
The moon hangs in the lull; the blazing spears
Blunt the eclipse above the pyramid;
Mummies rise in the mind; fey frozen tears
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Monday, December 7, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: death
Paul Amrod 09 March 2017
Hi Leo An absolutely fanstatic verse. I enjoy this immensely, Greetings, Paul
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