Mitchel David Ring

Thoughts, Stories, The Poem

Amber

No trace after they’ve passed through

only echoes that no one is there to hear

the woods empty and waiting

holes left where the nails were driven

the white flesh weeping amber

and in its depths this feeling, crystallized

the empty swell in silent collapse

All that’s left is for the sun to rise

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Photo by Jeff Osborn

Mitchel David Ring

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