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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