unleavened

Sights and sounds of mirth
Surrounded by fresh spring love births
While I, here, in full bloom
Wilt
Unleavened
Like dough left in the proof box too long
No I guess it doesn’t make sense
Such are my midnight contemplations
They squirm and writhe with melancholy
Afflicted by your parting words
Turning over and over and over;
I am not one for repeating
The same mistake twice,
Instead thrice, or more times
Just in case

-MCR.

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