There Is an End

Aquiver we all are.

As we lay supine

Seeking splendid solitude,

Automatons, the lot of us.

A brooding murder of beakless crows,

Garrulous all the time.

And when there are ripples

See them withdraw to an umbrella.

Lead flies around so much these days.

 

And those that passed

At least they bit the dust

While there was still any.

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