in
February 25th, 2004
It’s black,
I’m lost.
The stars
That usually
Are there
To guide my
Way have
Disappeared.
The soil is moist
Under my boots,
Fresh problems
Swept under
Pine needs
Waiting to burn.
It’s night.
I don’t know
Where I’m supposed
To be going.
I just know
I have to get there
Fast. But
The night is
Harsh and the
Owls’ hoots
Chill my spine.
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