Tuesday, December 6, 2016


Backtracked into the written
Seeking hints of the unfinished
...the unsaid.

Nothing wilted yet, as six drops into the last
I find the frequent gust of freshness

Sterile as I allow, tingling too
Protecting innovation in habitual form
...growing green.

This cave turned to confessional
Is now lonesome,
Seeking heat and more words with which To Live By.

The dust of ground axes
Now trampled under foot.

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