Reflect dead flower
How fast flow thy words of dissension
For upon thy stand there'd be such questions
In familiar rooms is time mundane
What of the world my fever is plain
Light upon the broken branch
Eat of the fruit of little thanks
Lost in some tender charm imagined
My reflection is lost in blame
Lonely man upon the lonesome windowpane
What then of life will it ever be the same
Lonely man upon the lonesome windowpane
© 2016 words and image Michael Garland
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