The Sky Turns A Red Pastiche
M
Mark Heathcote
0
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Rose-coloured tints at sunset
above skeletal black trees
seasonally they're bloodshed.
As the sky turns a red pastiche.
How shall our hearts remember
all that was once before their fall?
It's in our soul's framed epicentre.
Where we'll best remember all?
Each roll of film that's still not exposed.
Shall see the light of some new day
when it too, ends your film enclosed
be opened developed, far, far away.
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