poetry & things

In wild fields

This house, it does not speak of me

I am unknown to these adobe walls

these cool clay floors

I press my feet against

wanderlust, I dance

desert nights alone, I roam

these sands to drink of moon

thirst for stars to call me home

I travel endless nights

painted blue with black

wait for sunlight

to warm my room

once more to lay

in wild fields

with you

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