Untitled, original poem #21

 

worn by the wayside
months pass like cars
something is muttered about
  mole hills and moths
most drivers and passangers
  wouldn't take note
nope

i hear sibilations
  in the shattercane
secrets withheld 
  and foretold by the breeze

adrift in my effluence
parked on the wayside
watching doers and drivers
 as they drone on with ease

*

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Author: Transdimensional Poet

Poet, Transdimensional explorer, fisherman.

5 thoughts on “Untitled, original poem #21”

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