there are some places from
which there is no coming back
I stood,
hose in hand,
water
pushing out the bronze nozzle,
catches the
sunlight, sparkles,
a tail of
hope; leaves that should
have been green
and gently serrated,
instead bronzed
and curled.
Crowning each
branch, petals
that had
never opened, defeated;
limp and
browned, like hats
fallen over
faces that frowned, forever
swallowing what
colour
might have
been presented.
Everything
clutched inwards,
shrunken by
the search for shadows
where none
existed; on the burnt ground,
around its
defeated trunk, leaves shed
before
their time; each a story to tell,
each the
same tale, defeat ruins everyone.
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