Saturday, July 18, 2015

A trip

lament the lines that pass us by
endless white stretches
disappearing in the distance
up in front and behind

the scarring paths across the dirt
who draw their knives
and bleed the wanderer dry

they are the thieves of ancient trade
and look for loot
in soulless waves

to pillage those far from home

ravaging the tumbleweeds...

the feathers...

the alone





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