that bleats like silver eyes.
Is barren like leaves in spring.
A leaf wanders across the sidewalk,
parks itself in front of your driveway,
singing sad love songs to a pine cone.
I hate your eyes, the way you stare
at me, I hate your face,
etched in bric-a-brac.
The clock ticks in the kitchen.
An old man hums,
speaks of tomorrow and the yesterdays
that came before.
the shadow in the distance that bleats
like silver eyes,
and dances across gray areas.
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