Tuesday, October 13, 2015

prose poem 21 | first-fallen

One leaf, far too red, twists against an unseen breeze. Zephyr-born, it is torn towards the ground. Sanguine and languid it falls. Vermillion on grey, it dances past branches and fall heavy skies.

From the ground, with no sound, nor whisper of wind, it may seem to leap. 



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So I've added a tip jar to the blog, in the form a Patreon Campaign. 

If you've gotten any worth out of these poems and stories and experimental fiction and what-have-you, please consider donating. Any amount would be greatly appreciated and help to ensure I am able to keep doing this.


Thanks,
Edward

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