Some dangerous
moment hanging just there ahead of me.
Tragic and cunningly
gorgeous.
All death defying,
really simple melancholy.
Poetry. Poet. Writer
in the trees.
I won't slip past it
like before.
Deepening my steps
to a tempo slow, methodical.
The sun arcing
behind the storms glinting through openings like keyholes to
forgotten rooms I can no longer enter.
I will slip in key
when I find it but it's lost.
Nothing simpler in
motion than the whole fucking universe outside of me.
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