Places that whisper homages to themselves
In the silence, the dark, between trees,
Below mountains and in the space between
The horizon. To fall through the cracks of
Living, tripping backwards and out of life
Into an unknown silence. Those souls
Unspoken for who sit and wait in the soft
Fog of the desolate towns, places that we
Poke with haunted sticks. Visitors who
Breathe prayers that freeze before them
Suspended in fog, unsettled. To wander
Permanently, without a home, finding
The center of things in the center
Of things.

Author: Erica V.

Always seriously joking and rambunctiously soft-spoken.

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