Rotting in a strangers grave.

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I buried my heart
here in the cold
ground of a
strangers grave.
Among the rotting
corpse of the past.
It rests easy with
the twilights Owl
standing guard.
But sometimes as
dawn arrives
when the Owl has
taken flight, Its spirit
comes to me on
rays of sun, begging
that I take it back.

Karen Hayward ©2016

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8 thoughts on “Rotting in a strangers grave.

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