irony
is hearing ghost chains rattle
under a vernal sun
is the possession of
a solar powered cure for the world's pain
by one exiled to the dark side of the moon
is the meditation of mortality
drowning in seas of young colour
humming with a surfeit of life
context sometimes estranges
bedfellows of familiarity
fresh turned earth smells like
pastoral idylls and
dreamy half-smiles of contentedness
on another day
it smells of pall-bearers' tears
and hopes temporarily run aground
on shoals of jagged reality
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