Sunday, September 29, 2019

Mute Route

The goose flies unsure of anything
it cries
awakes those comfortable, slumbering souls


I watch from my bed of expectations
half awaiting
for a moment I'm distracted
elsewhere
on the plumage of this lost aviator


If the goose cannot find its way
what hope have I?
I'm gone, intoxicated
the bird has evidently found a flight path
for the sky is rendered silent
and I tread a mute route, once more

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