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The Wait

Hell has its own quietude
I do not know from the wait
to the well carved trail’s end –
No markers here, the forest
untouched, no knife-slashed tree
to guide one round the bend.
And now an endless interlude.

Spring winds come hard to the meadow,
and grasses flatten to soft earth,
each seed an obeisance to birth
and strength and forms without fear.
A violent joy sets alight the crow,
sparked obsidian a shadow
over cold and fading snow.

A warped window opens to the night,
slow tires hum past, spitting gravel
and dust behind a broken taillight.
The sound reminds you of a song,
some old acoustic lines of travel
and a lovely love in youth gone wrong –
Alone, quiet, a cruel moon slips from sight.