By Jon von Nottingham
Apathy seeps in
like a ghostly flute
suffering her way
through a ballad.
I close my world
and hear a loon
broadcast sadness
from cove to cove.
Geist,
das Machine
It is winter,
there is no loon;
We all struggle
under the icy haze
between solstice
and the strangle
of moons.
What does not kill us,
makes us crazy.
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