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

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



Author: Transdimensional Poet

Poet, Transdimensional explorer, fisherman.

5 thoughts on “Untitled, original poem #21”

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