Circling like a cur
shunning our glow,
the music fades
to a faraway hum,
with belly to the earth
leering closer,
long dark nights spill
into morose mornings,
the stage now empty
actors gone,
thus disarmed
we bed,
no crowd applause
whistles or bravos,
that time is here
and before we wake,
January kills
© Graham Sherwood 01/2016
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