#452 (through the marshes)

There was

the boy with

red strings around

his wrists, wading

through the marshes

a wisp of light

misleading, no lighthouse

for the lost, yet to lead

them even further astray

to drown in sorrow

or drink them in,

bitter aftertaste, yet

a remedy for

the broken hearted,

waters of truth.

© Matthias Grupe, 23rd July 2018

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