On Trails of Memoria

God, don't give me a 4a.m.
like yesterdays again;
let me slip the aching gallows
allow me sleep through sombre shadows,
as the ghosts that pinch my bones
find saner beds to sour.

No need for empty grates
to burn with morning hate,
filthy sandman home again
with mortal bells on each a.m.
Future flower, flower bruised
gallant dawn be gold...

@ Steven Francis poems 2012

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