Seems a bit of a run,

this quiet solitude is a rant

waiting to echo the chambers

yet now,

secluded, off camera if you will,

the focus being

deep dark and hollow

some ill-forgotten travel,

where would rather

the flim-flam freedom of stuff.

~

Would seem a somber scrutiny

lays out upon

best-laid plans and failures,

all together now,

they chant a familiar line,

and the world stretches itself further

with a buzz,

something I cannot seem to grasp,

though apparent.

~

Instead a retreat

a shelter in confusion

with tenuous angles and reach

those outside seemingly in a mechanical line

march on.

~

Will I remain here in some sedentary plot

of soil

wanting only to find water.

---

© Thom Amundsen 10/2021