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Corpus Flow


 
The roots drink deep of the black
bitter dirt. Adorned in violent richness,
its branches provide neither shelter  
nor support to scrambling squirrels,
who twist for a baneful foothold.
 
A distant murk crawls in,
rank with false relief.
 
A post holds whole years,
jagged edges  
broken and pointing.
 
 
 
 
 
Written by Atakti
Published
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