Friday, February 07, 2025

a poem, sort of, for a morning in winter

Sunshine in the rear-view mirror in your eyes breaks lines on the wave. Scolds coldly you on the rooftop for time though you are only a victim of sunrise and its move to reverse space. Down how many stairs and salt lakes on landings he steps into. Routine trap. Cutting you down and to wish south where one can be reborn.

Nobody talks to you, it's just how people describe you after you shuffle past. Outside with dormant sedans, see stars float like fall’s leaves in the creek.

No more people are knowing about you now. Who lost everything could always return and hug the trees like family.

The list is thousands long. It will follow you all the way. Tell me about breaking your will and what needs to happen, what you belong to.

 

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