Wednesday, November 25, 2015

A Migration

Between young mountains and even younger towers
the wind urges me to go still higher
but below where I came from

I swallow the cold
and feel its burn grow in my chest like frost across glass
every breath a lingering specter
how long ago did I come to this middle land
of jagged false stone roads, of pools of ice water
old as the earth

The air its bitter tongue
telling me this is not mine
it's never been mine
I am not from here

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