The Stationary Hunt

So still, lying
Under the hammock made from old metal
Shrouded in flowers
Paper-like petals

Inside my skin
The truth
I might call it inspiration

And I think subtle thoughts
Whistling in my head
The aching
Before falling into bed,

Just practice I suppose
shift, cracking my toes.

You are interesting, creature
That which I discover, a buried treasure
He thinks much less of it here
Under grains of sand unmeasured.

Still eager mind
Paper thoughts, bloom
To melt into him
And his mystery, long sought to exhume.


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