London Poem: Day 353

5 August

The crisp and crackle, shattered
Under foot, erase sullen angels,
Made so many seasons ago.
Their names, forgotten in some book,
Balance between tongues before they fall,
And disappear, without a word.
These dreams, to build faces for fallen
Grace is a sin, lodged in the pages
Of a holy book, hoping in seasons to come,
You may stir upon their lovely names.

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Published by

keelancrampsey

In flux

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