the woods are tired,
sleeping under snow from
the year before (they
forgot about the calendar
turning- nobody
watches clocks
under the trees)
once I walked here
when leaves were above
me, not below
worlds change when
the sky drifts slowly
to the ground, buried
under a hikers footsteps
it is only now
when I can see them-
later, Ill come back
to watch them melting
it is only then
when I am turned on my feet
again. dizzily
I retreat, scared of
anything but summer.















Comments
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A Contest A Year In The Making. Click here for details [link] and get in on the year round fun!
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You have a way of putting things in your poetry that reminds me in a way of my favorite poet.
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Me(E): you are a dreamcrusher, Alex. A brilliant one, but a dreamcrusher.
A: haha
E: you are, sir. I should go dig up Langston Hughes and tell him that.
A: you should
E: "What happens to a dream deferred?" "It gets stomped on by Alex."
Ah. Well, that's a high compliment.
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