Mud-caked with dark memories,
Ashen and terrified,
The serpent of shame
slithering over his heart,
Raking the dead leaves of autumn
for a rustle or murmur of life,--
the leaves that had once a lively luxuriance,
Alas, the spring was wasted,
The bus was missed,
Now the sulking journeyman
looking for some traces of life in a grave.
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