Atticus, 1798

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group


Atticus, 1798

I wouldn't know. Perhaps it's the way my thoughts flow, over rapids of my mind. Filling my pen from a pond of ink, of India blue.

Or! Was it the grinder's mill where the candle dripped tallow?

Darkness is only hours of a night, and headstones don't have alarm clocks. But, I have witnessed the soil's breath. Grow roses that fall the tears on grandma and hear grandpa fiddle from Heaven.

Then the spirits of prose, covered in a veil. Swing the pendulum of my dark shell, as I script my testimony to the lords of the dead. Blinded by the daylight as ravens visit me in dreams

Or! Was it the grinder's wheel where the candle dripped tallow?


Submitted: July 09, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Atticus Abbey. All rights reserved.

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