I, the lonesome strider, not their daughter. Arrived, with two suitcases, and one big lie.
I, the lame writer with grammar error, carrying shame to this day, working in the railway.
Sunset amid skyline, clouds roaming into building, drivers speeding, water bottle boy.
Let them pass, for I, yearning for the forest, and lake afar.
Turtles sorted ‘neath the sun, red cardinal squeak for fun, mountain laurel popped, deep spring, withered in stormy nights.
One last flag, one last cry, shaking in the lesbian bar.
Deep dark, secret, deep dark coffee, fueled my night drive, two thousand miles.
I, the broken roamer, left, not a circle trip, behind body parts, and a weary heart.