barren edge
The woods are the only place that listen,
a form of solitary confinement,
locked in between the boundless array of introspection.
I see people enter this canopy of trees,
only to set up a canopy in their mind
with the conversation they have,
taking nothing in but the words branching from their mouth.
Walking through the woods,
with free company where it resides.
They listen like a hoard,
jumping aboard its ship
and sailing forevermore.
They're an island that howls,
speaking and seeking,
traveling in murmurations,
but its shape is dull and numb.
There are beasts in shimmering lights
not from the wild,
It's there my mind runs wild,
gone dazed and confused.
No one will listen,
no one has listened,
wont they just listen beyond its cement?
cold hare
river rain