Out With The Old

You breathe.

Slow.

Steady.

Light bleeds.
Dripping away as
Blackness,
Jewelled and sharp,
Pours foward. 
From lips so pale.

The contrast,
Stark.

Fading.

You breathe.
The sun away.

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The Silver Birch Sees

Old white bones. 
So thin and worn.
In lazy dry wind.
Clack together.
A rhythmic applause
At slow small efforts,
Made far below.
Where few look up
To see the crowd.