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Alone
Long fingers of dawn,
a cold morning sky,
great piles of cumulus
like cold-drawn steel,
wind blows harder now,
ghostly cypress raise up,
barren limbs rake the sky,
lone Mallard beat his wings
across the cloud-lit water.
Only in memories could he recall
what life should have been.
The bottle was his friend
his castle was the hall,
nothing can take him back
to where this all began,
before the downward fall.
Family , loved ones drifted away,
only one thing did last,
a brown bottle, his best friend,
and a dusty, empty hall.
The mallard spirals,
drops from view,
only a misty memory,
one of a fading few.
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