I hear
it, the foreboding force
of a hot pushing
river of steam. Screaming
out the unsettled conscience,
a swift seeping of
bold, boiling longings for
others, for changing. Me,
I marinate in it, in it's healthy
poignancy. Nervous with it's involvement,
it's knowledge of my potential, I lean
deeper into my porch steps. Oh, how
trains cut through thirsty paintings,
leaving only tracks
of fear and dangerous
new ideas. I want
only not to
doubt, to
wonder.
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