Cataracts have grown over my eyes.
Blinding me from the gorgeous tragedy
That bestows wandering winds to my moored soul.

Suffering and freedom on the East coast.
Pines call to me like a mother
Searching for her lost young.
Desperate and warm.

Lounging in the decay and sap filtered light,
I find myself.
I am calloused fingers looking for scratch and song.
A Vagabond of soft heart and pernicious wrongs.