Feeling worn on rolled up sleeves and
excuses coating tip of tongue idioms.
Paint on a scowl,
for old time’s sake?
Say you’d never leave but
blood runs through this pen
like ink all too ready to grieve.
Poised, geared up to dart,
bob and weave between the trees
that still stand as this season
opts for an exit too.
Hesitantly so, and yet
still won’t leave me alone.
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