The Dusk, “Bought”.

If one could ever begin to twist

like the branches of trees we all derive from

there would be no lack of certainty

in the whims of our sunlight-driven whispers.

 

Tell me,

when last did you seek warmth without knowing

there is cold to be given in return?

How long will you stand still, shouting

that the evening has left you unturned?

 

No, the dirt that is shoveled leaves

answers in its wake.

You can add mulch,

tears,

broken conversation.

It matters not to your blue spruce.

The only matters a pine needle considers

are those just as pointy as

a minute itself.

 

Picture a frame

made entirely of dusk.

Your face

realizes its own potential

just as the sun

fades beyond

that which we all have decided

is “bought”.

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