spun from the wind
blowing
ideas around
the parking
lots
of trash
and no one
seems to
mind
the mess
created
a portrait
in the sand
drawing
only last so long
the tide
pulls at their short life
never makes
sense with nickels and dimes
eyes on
some prize not promised
nothing
guaranteed
change as
he turns the corner
and is
rejected again alone
morning
rain turns to snow
it's April
it's New England
those who
live here know
only his
words scattered thoughts
overlapping
the edge of nonsense
and onto a
field few stand by and watch
words fall
never taking serious the idea
everyone do
what they want
no seal or
stamp of approval
disapproval
in decisions made
want to
hide too long
never
knowing how strong
wind stands
hair on end
winter what
happened to the thoughts of spring
warm air
breathing as much as a lung can hold
it's cold
and the wind drives crazy the mind
traces
memories darkening the faded lines
constantly
avoiding any signs
running
directly into the wind
flipping
thought after thought
may have
reached a few
turns out
no one really hears it...
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