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.
Hazel J. Hall 
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