Narrative

My plot is laid outNaked, undergroundWhere the roots areWhere you sometimes stopOver your shovel, restingFrom labours of love.Or loving the labours thatBring home the apples,carrots and silencesFor a late-night salad.Twisting the story-line, i lieNeverendingly narratedBy flashbacks of what maybe wasJust an instrument to rakeThe dead leaves on the pathWe did not take.

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