visitations
i wrote of my village
but all had fled
no one bothered to look
no one saw the dereliction of belonging
where the ochre cinders were rendered
in the cold hearths of the furnaces
hearts had congealed
the ghosts have moved house
emptiness moves the thoughts aside
it all falls crooked with the thoughts
like leaves on the moss steps
drip drip drip
time time time
passes away with the ghosts
your ghost remains
you leave
rather too quickly for your own good
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