49. Last Seasons Murder

Last seasons murder
Is this seasons shoes,
It’s the life we lead &
The life we choose.
Wouldn’t it be nice if
We could change the rules,
For i fear we might be fools.

Outside a sigh brings me to my senses,
i open the door and look through the fencing,

Branches bending in the breeze
A squirrel barks before it screams
i wonder why it left the tree
i hear his friends call out his name
Even this meat-eater feels his pain.
At times like this it’s only right to rain,
And yet, the clouds refuse their gain.

4 thoughts on “49. Last Seasons Murder”

  1. What a great poem, beautifully phrased insights into the interwoven processes of life and death You see this was what I had hoped for in my Russian doll post!

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