‘tis not around the corner
where love should stay alone
and like the sun enliven minds
from the far away outside.
And it’s like a shadow falling
that turns to blackened ash
all glory be delights
meant to rise and satisfy
the spirit of desire.
The forest moans
when the flesh
doesn’t live
according to the rules
made and stored forever
in the cells of memory.
(Photograph by Frank Bennett, New Zealand)
But what of trees; they’re not me
yet of corners I’m aware
and the moan is like my own
emanating from the soul!
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