Every now and then
I see a clearing
A winding road
Trying to show me
Where I came from
Where I belonged once
On days that seem to
stand still
I hear the ground echo
Words bounce from stone
to stone
As they whisper a story
that lies
In the disquiet of my
voice
Inspiration, born in a
dream
A sense of kin or a myth?
Flowers show me death
Red, green and blue
Cut deeply into the
earth
An eagle in flight
Sharp against the sky
Rows of silos reveal
themselves
Like soldiers on guard
under moonlight
I try not to blink as
the wind twirls around them
A house inscribed with
images of skin that
Speak in a tattooed
language of the dead
I walk a broken life
Both inside and outside
of myself
I am not special
Snow falling on
eyelashes is special
Pain and anguish is not
When did I learn to see
in the dark?
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