Pale Tune

I spilled into that frosting grass.

Spindly, numb blades lusted for the blank sky above

and bent and bedded me into their meadow-berth.

The pinching smell of nothing burnt my nose

and dried my fairing skin.

I forgot that flesh but I found sleep,

sidling through the deep wetting grasses.

Even so, open were mine eyes and nothing foreboding did yet I see.

Now I know

that I have escaped the weight of darkness


Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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