Category: Poetry

Metastatic World Traveler

  I’ve traveled, watched places unfold under me, as shirts from beleaguered cases onto hangers. Many streets left behind and those right in front reveal a tourist’s gift, unspoken surprises. Bread, wine, flowers in paper wound in twine. On my watch, my time, grows long, The farther away from the terminal, Smaller and blurred with

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In Somnia

I. Morning draws up the tired day, yet not even dawn. The barely risen sun climbs upon the horizon stretching Warm fingers that weave tightly into wisteria climbs. Roses, garden royals, heads bob on their thin thorny limbs. Flowers bloom from rains upon our backyard crop, Turned earth evicts a few worried worms. I find Solitude

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