Knocknocknock.

Rooted

between

Westnedge Ave, whirl and weave

and apricots

moments after a last breath on

the tree

I am.

Floudering

among

fingertipping business cards

dominoes

and fistfuls of dreams falling

out of a guitar case

I am.

Racing

from

coasts screaming

at the lightless night

to pot holes reflecting

books on fire

I am.

Reaching

for

rungs of splintery heights

howling windsong

and

a key, stroke by slam

open this damned door – here

I am.

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2 thoughts on “Knocknocknock.

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