On a whim…

Chaotic, esoteric, marginally coherent, stuff about life.

Our Rest

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Crisp air, an autum breeze

Coverlet drawn to the chin.

A nap

Cool amongst dead leaves.

Our rest ends the summer days.

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Written by David Wilkerson

6 March 2008 at 11:51 pm

Posted in metaphysics, poem

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