In the Dead of Night | Mark Andrew Heathcote

I’m an oak with rings ingrain My heart is a woodcut carving My soul a gnarled wooden cane No longer prevents my falling. I’m a mountain-pine-forest A field of flattened wheat: A no-man’s-land, a gauntlet Thrown, down in beseech Of-war, of-madness or friendship Take your pick; I am ready, for all. I have sharpened and …

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