Walking With The Wind

Finding a stinging sense to motivate.

Spit my juice on the ground.
Walk with a jump, a limp
-the gait of a rabbit-
foxes a chasing,
making snide terse sound.

What is with the wind
-blows the same grows stale-
nothing too everything stinks
with no opposed habit.



Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.

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