Indian Summer
The heat haze rose from a tarmac lake
on a strange October's eve.
An Indian Summer's sun would bake
and dry each newly fallen leave.
The mornings still brought damp and dew
and mist to hide the Hills of Mourn
Libido's lamp flares up and through
till next June when your last is born.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
Added by Poetry Lover
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