The autumn pages of dead wood.A Poem by andrew mitchell
A fiery memory prodded,
stirs a seasoned past, her naked flame once again aroused by a forgotten time gone. In the event, her flickering will succumb to tomorrow, she sighs, only to be remembered as charcoal and ash. © 2020 andrew mitchell |
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Added on May 17, 2020 Last Updated on May 17, 2020 Authorandrew mitchelladelaide, AustraliaAboutStrindberg said. " When I come home and sit at my writing table, then I live.... I live, and I live in manifold fashion of all human beings. I depict; I am glad with the glad, wicked with the wicked,.. more.. |

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