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The crime is prettier
than it seemed.
Three years, with flowers
dying on the nightstand.
One ring, dispossessed
from heart and hand.
A sundress, like lemonade,
spilled across the steps.
The tree, outside
with its new shadow.
A last thought, unheard,
fluttering in the breeze.
YOU ARE READING
Bedtime Prophecies
PoetryPoetic perceptions from a dissociative identity poet. Clearing the wardrobe to find a missing ring; found you instead in my discard pile.
