Monday, April 2, 2018

empty roads

What then is this silence?
This loss?
This beautiful visage of nothingness?
Like a cool, spring wind it flows gentle
fingers across the nape of my neck,
Tingling in anticipation, in delightful remorse
Tense, yet saturated with the exhilaration of anticipation.
Of what does my countenance wait? 
It cannot be told, or foretold. 

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