A familiar bird sings
a plaintive song.
At night I am taken
to a holding pen
brought to I don’t know where,
alive still
dropped in a hole.
A distant train
voicing its call to a
long absent Lord.
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by Robert A. Davies / October 16th, 2016
A familiar bird sings
a plaintive song.
At night I am taken
to a holding pen
brought to I don’t know where,
alive still
dropped in a hole.
A distant train
voicing its call to a
long absent Lord.
This article was posted on Sunday, October 16th, 2016 at 8:02am and is filed under Poetry.
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