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All seems different,
like a blurry landscape
with vanishing maps.
The distance from the past
keeps growing.
I slice through space and time,
on the chosen path,
along a trajectory of circumstances.
Against the denial of access,
against the gate closing,
just to hold together what was apart.
We face death every day
and we live.
When we finally die
perhaps that’s the gift.

The flowers grow wild
in my world.
She says they’re weeds
but she is but a girl.
I reckon she’ll have to come back this way, to learn how to break free of this maze..
Look at the time!
We have to go,
live out our poetry
with all we know.
Traveler Tim
I’m so busted I can’t be trusted,
I’ve been stealing from myself
just to get high.
All the karma I’ve been making
is barely enough to keep me alive.
My account is in the negative,
my credit is a peace of mind.
I need a loan,
I need to borrow,
I need to find myself a wife.
Traveler Tim

Or get up off my ***!!
In the chill of a dreary April day,
I find myself wandering through the dimness,
My eyes were straining in the absence of light.
As I approach the door, a sense of familiarity washes over me, pulling me back to a time of comfort and solace.
The thought of retreating to the inviting embrace of my warm bed beckons me like a gentle siren, contrasting sharply with the biting cold that surrounds me.
In this moment, I realize that in this vast expanse of uncertainty, there is only one clear path to follow—one that leads back to the refuge of my blankets and dreams.
Zebra are seen mainly in dreams,

With licorice stripes--

And bodies of cream--



Their jewelry box hooves

Are made from the moon--

And their manes were lately

Bristles on brooms.



You can take off their heads

And fill them with clouds--

If you fill them with coins, they weigh five thousand pounds.



Lions like stars--

So they hunt in the sky--

But the zebra are hiding

Behind your closed eyes.



Zebra are seen mainly in dreams--

In the morning, they follow the sun--

When its warmth is felt, their cream bodies melt,

And then, away they run.
I am ten crows, twenty-three starlings,
one tree, a world of racket, every dusk that ever was.

I am a holy heart four angels defend,
other times I am nothing but flesh and fingertips.

There are four seasons, three necessities,
two sides to the moon.

The window has eight panes;
I am in them all.
This is a "flash 55' a poem in exactly 55 words. All the numbers in the poem add up to 55 as well, though that is not a requirement.
#55
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