Night Owl

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  • Angst

    Night Owl

    She sits alone
    most days,
    most nights,
    pearched in
    corner with
    her pipe,
    smoking rock
    she holds on
    tight only to
    fade into the
    light of the
    flickering candle
    she burns so
    bright.
    For night owl
    knows all is
    not right,
    can't find her
    way she won't
    fight so, death
    awaits her final
    flight pearched
    in corner with
    her pipe that
    numbs all
    feelings, that
    wrongs all right.
    Now close the
    door, the windows
    now, lock them up
    tight don't make
    a sound, and creep
    around quietly if
    any should knock
    you can't be to
    trusting in your
    spot.
    So, let the tears
    build up till your
    weak in your
    knees, and keep
    on smoking to
    the wheeze of
    the poison your
    pipe does breed.

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    Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    BreeTadah’s Poems (11)

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