Poem.

Wandering                                                                    

With no Home to go,

i set out alone

the cold hands of a stranger,

tickling across my face,

echoing loneliness,

like an everlasting chase,

imaginary eyes appear in and out the trees,

wind claws at my wrists,

like a frostbitten shackle,

a crow shatters the silence,

its pieces falling on my head,

a white field of carnations,

appear set underfoot,

my feet hardly indent,

this powerful trap,

whose beauty and wonder,

can’t help to attract,

the lonely eyes,

of a misplaced wanderer.

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