The Moya View
Morning heavier than ageleaves the birds weighted to the limbs, unable to break out in riotous morning song.In the distance— a church bell,people in black creeping around-“Heaven. Heaven,” in their earsfor the poor soul laying beneath.They wish to hear only the sea.The old sea. The new sea. Any sea— to catch their tears, drown their grief.
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JONATHAN MOYA
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Beautiful post ✍️
I particularly love this one. But then I love your work.
Very fine sir
Great one
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