shout

of what we know

it is with flying feet that sweeps the winter
blown in from higher places where echos
of what we know and do not speak aloud

the lying of the rustled sand now slips past
gone so soon into another stranger’s arms
these hurried days shout the anguished sky

leaves you sitting in the darkness wondering
how patient the seconds slip into each other
when will they turn and smile down you again

Lighthouse-before-the-storm

 

One thought on “shout

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