I’ve Written All Year & This Is What I’m Left With

Sunlight soaked seasons
Wander the weary way trying to track my own inspiration
Persistence is passion and passion is a fickle thing
Let me paint the atmosphere here
Sage, stones and scenic stares
The air is different
Roam a random route like that might spark something, different
I’m the driest thing on this side of the coast
Pad of paper like a confessional booth, but the priest is out
What am I talking about?
The wind whistles through the bushes and sings hymns
Low rumbles from flight patterns high in the heavens
The hawks have grown tired of my trek
Shoulders strapped with a backpack containing everything I’ll never need
Reflections from distant window panes as my time frame weighs heavy on my heels
The pebbled path seems steeper as I descend


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