
We finally allowed the sun its death,
An old red dog, put to sleep
On the vista, rippling
A vision, bent in colours of hope.
You saw it, same as I.
You let me into yourself.
Clear and distilled,
This angel's share,
Of our brief time.
About the Creator
Dylan Nicholson
Writer of short stories.
London. Film person.
Owns far too many books.
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