One hunch back hitchhiker,
seeking prehistoric medicine
had a meet n' greet with deadly plants
even in these woods he felt a steady wind,
from history's distant trippy roots,
when he reached out his decrepit hand
same time found he couldn't move
nor breathe, blue beaked
then he grew wings and flew
for what seem like a few weeks
drowning in green blue ridge
mountain beauty, rushing water
leaving plumage useless
the truth hurts
like landing face first
as space-time winds down
the hour glass's last turn: through.
The Crax was eaten up
by Magdalena's whirlpool.

Nobody's sure anymore about what we felt sure of before we weren't sure and I am not sure anyway.

But
we built our houses from straw
spit and sawdusted the floor
what were we waiting for?
absolution?

absolutely?
well
Pan played the pipes like a flute
he
was a ram of a man,
are you sure of me now?

From getting used to your text
To getting surprised by your text
  Wait, poet, he remembers
But again if he did  he wouldn't have forgotten you don't like being left on read
Sigh if he remembers he would have known why you disappeared last week

Oh no he is not the first person person you told
So l guess diary knows the crax of story

But you made his favourite food
And you he told you how his day went
So much chaos, but you are sure history will have a replay
In 2 weeks max,
you told yourself you would ask him again

Check your calendar today sounds like right on time for a good story

Oh no poet its been over a month
Sigh
So over a month no hi,
You didn't ask how is he either
Why are you surprised by his text