Just like stained doves
fluttering in hay fields,
I spotted you between clouds
and knew even beautiful things
could be misplaced.
So I climbed the single tree
in the vast hay field,
only to find an abandoned
birds nest with it’s eggs
shattered. Twigs intertwined
between empty shells
that birthed life—
or maybe the shells were
a trap.
Drip.
Perhaps we were free
before our souls found
homes behind rib cages
and beating hearts.
Only to find that rib
cages become carcasses—
in due time we all
become dust. In due time
skin becomes earth
and breath becomes air,
perhaps we were meant
to be recycled.
Drip.
Somehow we live
in constant streams
of thought, the shame
is we often exist in
the ones that taunt us.
The lives we run from
only end up running
beside us—feeding our
possibilities with longing.
Currents of thoughts
unknown to ourselves,
yet we create them
despite our desire to do so.
Drip.
oh I didn’t realize it was raining.

Photo: Pinterest
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