Hot Ashes For Trees

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Gilmour says he’s moved on; so too should we.

So appropriate the name of David,
I think. Love
is a Goliath, and I
am a stone’s
throw away, watching,
while singed memories rise in woodsmoke
song streaking
through low fog, and the lyrical liquidity
is a balm to my charred
heart, aching –
from and for –
the blackening

The incineration of Icarus.


Out of the ashes…

Scorched-wing phoenix, fly.

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