Poem without me in it


Will my words linger long after I am gone

like the scent of decaying skunk

filling the cabins of passing cars

days after its unfortunate end?

Or will I be just another smoke cloud

dissipating and absorbed into the air,

forgotten as easily as breath

rarely acknowledged inside the lungs?

I never considered the gift of blue sky

until the mountains stayed hidden most afternoons

behind walls of stratus palls and misty fog,

weeks of damp and dreary roadways

leading me to ideas for morose tattoos

and a romanticism for lamp light

with rain pattering the window glass,

complacency, too, is a kind of violence.


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