
A Storm Called Eunice
In front of me, a massacre
by dark and crossed arms.
But the garden will mend
from this crystalline damage.
From tempest spinning circles,
and pitched storm spectres.
Phantasm thrumming and
requiem squealing at windows.
Our bare ghost trees cut from
card are yelling and coughing.
Itβs carnage from a sunken sky.
edited 18/2/22 10.43am
Image The Storm by E Munch 1893. Β©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #apoemaday on Twitter
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