Silvery innards spill across the inky sky
It is not a happy night.
Sometimes the cuckoo sings in
Harmony with the crickets
While you danced, pale hair a ghostly sheen.
Anywhere else is better than
The little turret; filth and grime - now lies
A dreamlike substance in my mind.
And the mist drops surreptitiously
Like the scrim in my favourite operas; only it is so light
That I didn't notice until I'm enshrouded in it.
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