habitual days and days
when nothing is new in the way it once was
beneath some warm sun, interstellar
more than I will ever know
this direction, this path, these places
in their brevity.
it is days like these
when it is all infinintely more finite than me.
fleeting. And cruel.
perhaps I have merely worn this path thin.
Maybe there is a bend deeper in the trees
that, when travelled,
will finally change me.
Poetry and photography by Hazel J. Hall.