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Rated: E · Poetry · Philosophy · #2174019
Does anyone really know where they are going on life's journey?
Sometimes when we walk under the sinking sun
our shadows seem to quicken behind us.
As if to hasten us to that place where all avenues end.

We grieve for the trees pulled into this earth,
that send their roots into the cobblestones at our feet. Constrict
when they mangle into knots, and return to the surface
to plead mercy from the sky. We pray-

for the days that drop like leaves.
Bleed, for the disoriented beat of the birds,
that bleat like belaboured hearts
in bone cages.

For there is no grace in this voyage,
with no paddle to steer us.
Where the weary traveller curses the sunĀ“s retreat.
Never closer to that place than waves,
straining in a shoreless seascape.
Each drowning under the other.
© Copyright 2018 Archaic Torso (wakeupdead at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2174019