Cry with the Birds
Wet Wad lies in the middle of his bed
His face calm
His wrinkles glistening like ripples on a slightly perturbed lake
The dead silence in the room broken by the intermittent cries from the birds
In the room are phantoms of the fleeting past
Beings conjured by a note in the mail
Upon his last resting place they stare
while seated on stools of fir
They let their minds wander
Until their backs grow weary
Then they leave, headed for the comforts of their nests
Stopping by the pub to grab a pint of beer.
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