Poems

Nomadic.


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I do return

                Some days when
                The moon is bright
                And I am done

Adventure is

               A flickering light
               Extinguished by
               Cold, wet storms

And then
               I’ll leave
Because
               Where do I belong
If not
               In that space
Between stillness and motion?

I was always a nomad. Perhaps I didn’t see it. I stand alone on hope. Hope is beautifully tragic because I have no real cause to have it except a line of now-dead (and some alive) people who tell me how.

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3 thoughts on “Nomadic.

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