crisp autumn air, whispers bear
hill crests only we know where leaves are so
amber and the sky is so golden.
Posted in response to the challenge PAST CONTESTS: Fall '23: Writing.
crisp autumn air, whispers bear
hill crests only we know where leaves are so
amber and the sky is so golden.
Posted in response to the challenge PAST CONTESTS: Fall '23: Writing.
sunday nights are my own.
old music in the corners of my mind
pen scratches on paper, ten thousand poems
two hundred and seventy-two
little golden lights, 4 walls
that mirror my soul.
At the hurl of a storm, the tree collapses.
Stagnant from then on, broken. Such an easy thing to be.
In the unpredicted wind, it sways
back and forth on its trunk, tendons straining
in the months of darkness and cold, i never stopped writing.
i just kept it all to myself. every night, my own religion
pages of pen poised on paper, pouring my heart out
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