Sonnet

On a bench in a cemetery,

sitting alone,

I stare at a grave

as still as a stone.

On a warm morning,

enjoying the silence,

I try to seek a sound

I try to feel a presence.

My thoughts run

drifting away

soaring in the sky

as a bird of prey

And while I feel dazed, watching an old tree.

a blurry shape appears to me.

Francesco Pistillo 1st May 2015

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