Somewhere, Out There

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
feel aimless

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.

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