poetry & things

Of sorrow

Sitting under these trees waiting

maybe all day for the moon

or the washing rain upon my face

lay upon this mossy grass, all sunk in

pay no mind to where I’ve been

no matter – awake or dreaming

I fly into the forest with birds

waxwings, Bohemians

under maple leaves

sun dappled, shining

or perched in the pinewoods

a safe place to hide away

a heart that’s dying.

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