F. Street

The end of the world is coming

not indefinitely, but substantially

the dream I had was well versed

a petal falling from on high


from out of a dark place it rose

glistening and unreachable

too many nights a sweltering low

fading across the traipsed terrain


F. Street's calling among the moonbeams

a locked cavernous vault of light

the seeds embed in damp covetous despair

pan through the night, sift out its lair


the choking sensation of decaying thought

brewed in a cauldron wrought of  longing

stirred twice, haunted and balmy

shadows wane, the end of the world is coming

The End

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