Tuesday, April 26


When the sun comes out
I can see right to the corners
When the sky is clear
I can see so far

The music of trees disjointed
Broken up by machines
And I am happier here
In a place I don’t understand

But within my own world
The sky remains close
Thick and overcast, dense
Without form or motive

Their wisdom in my ears
The familiarity of history
Waiting for the sun to come out.


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