Startled birds

People are made of porcelain, poor pretty things they break like rain on the hot road, their voices released skywards, startled birds and then nothing sings. Who knows what awaits the last concentric ring as it crosses water to the shore, that dim misty thing, coldly pebbled, so bleakly peopled. There will always be flowers and blooming days to leap like leotarded kids from the emptiness but what view is there from the foggy pier in the dim twilight where boats come in one by one? The passengers forlorn and craning disembark to gather dumbly on the shore to see where hope is flaring pink across the distant blue and dying.


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