Ode 2 by David Pollard

My Lord, my Lord, what games we play with these

almighty colours of the drowned

that follow us with pains that never ease,

hearing only the faintest echoes sound.

And we, my lord, among your city of branches

catch at its lights cradled within a tear

as it will drop, seemingly to death.

Thus the wood blows its candles as it blanches,

brief as it is on its broad wings of air,

falls just as simple as a final breath.

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