Narrative

My plot is laid out
Naked, underground
Where the roots are
Where you sometimes stop
Over your shovel, resting
From labours of love.
Or loving the labours that
Bring home the apples,
carrots and silences
For a late-night salad.
Twisting the story-line, i lie
Neverendingly narrated
By flashbacks of what maybe was
Just an instrument to rake
The dead leaves on the path
We did not take.

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