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// Sunday, November 27, 2016

The Last Harvest Crows

A thread,
A purpose,
A path,
And it's down the rabbit hole I go.

If I don't return by the time the last harvest crows
Pick the scarecrows clean,
And the daylight dies soon after it's born,
Then send in the tendrils,
And the ghost-lights,
To pull me from the vines,
The barbs,
And the gloom,
Of the ever present,
Spiraling humor,
That is the melancholy now.

Copyright 2016 Christopher V. DeRobertis. All rights reserved.

This text composition is a work of fiction. Names, places, institutions, events, incidents, characters, persons, locations, contexts, scenes, scenarios, symbols, glyphs, iconography, and/or organizations either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Full Creative Writing Disclaimer.