The Real Poetry.

poetry

My legs they
ache,
with longing.
To hit the open country road
and ride until the sun comes up
and everything on Earth is
slowly stirring

To find a small clearing
near a pond, but not too
near a pond, where I
can take a bath and
tuck myself inside my
sleeping bag amidst a
plethora of painful
rocks to rest on

It’s poetry, I promise.
As long as you don’t
think about the
hunger and the
biting flies
and the long ride
back
home

One thought on “The Real Poetry.

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