Atrophic

Last spring, I bought you flowers,
But I’m sure they’re withered now.
The tender winds held hours,
But I’m sure they’re withered now.
Last spring your mind was grown,
But I’m sure you’re withered now.
Though in the spring his heart was known –
I’m sure it’s withered now,
And last spring his bones were strong,
But I’m sure they’re withered now –
Last spring the days were long,
But I’m sure they’re withered now,
And, with time’s wholesome water,
Would they have withered, anyhow.

Atrophic

tonathonfurey

London, United Kingdom

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Artist's Description

A poem dedicated to – - – - – -

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