The Woodman by Chris Harris


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The Woodman




Darkest green laden early to evening
Summer bows to memories still
Touched closer among us in being
Real as those who ever feel
Wounded to the rear trailing
Then as through so thin appeal
Of tommorrows disguise eternal

Maintainer of deception
In space between places
As those in transit taken
Endless as memories left
In perfect simulation

Given as a coin to wish in places
Broken days hung as pictures
Frozen in times shallow in portrait
Taken within eyes without gesture
Contained sightless as moments seperate
Reasons without purpose encounter