Close season – a sonnet
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Black shadows creep like an eclipse
As cellos stroke a dark refrain.
The numbness in my fingertips
Seeps slowly up toward my brain.
The veil is drawn like ghostly ships
That glide across some darkened main,
Which eases ev’ry stab of pain
And stays the oft-protesting lips.
Below the line, the sun now slips.
The pulse of time but slowly drips
As ether mops the brow of strain
And consciousness begins to drain.
For three long months catharsis grips
Until the season starts again.
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