When nature nor nurture provide
When days turn like leaves
Much as the last season died
And a soft caress has all the barbs of a rose
But nothing of love remains
Where absence is felt in a place no one knows
The labour will no longer yield a crop
In earth of barren waste
Proclamations of voices beckoning stop
Time has flitted as those same dead leaves
Swept to frenzy, discarded when they fall
The poison waits, placed deep by we thieves
Murdoch Mouse
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