Friday, October 23, 2020

Untitled

Lost in a tunnel of trees

green boughs drop arms 

burdened with a white cold.

They are speaking to me. 

The windows are up and 

I’m driving too fast. I want 

to hear but fast is better. 


Is this the way it really is?

I believe in their wisdom. 

I'll slow down and make

pretend meaning with words 

like mine. 


I could just open the window,

accept the scent of cold and 

hear the whispers of green, wild air 

in what echoes, what hurts inside. 




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