365 Days of Poetry: Day One-Hundred and Eighty-Seven

a morning jacket.
and pants of gray.
there are no days.
I do not wish to face.

the sun.
the sun is rising but.
my lids are still.
waiting for.
burnt umber scenes.
that have been built to last.

waves crash in.
mourning goes out.
to see, gleam.
one more purty picture.
from what becomes of me.


About June Faramore

Writer of fantasy, mainstream, and young adult fiction. Poet and sketcher. Mother. I read a lot and love cheese. Guitar playing singer-songwriter. I also enjoy stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk. View all posts by June Faramore

this side, that side

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