My thoughts grind together
Processing all the things I notice.
What a beautifully morbid activity.
Sleepy sighs fall into weepy yawns
Usually oblivious to streets and windows.
Prop myself up on willow trees with bark
Touch is more than a feeling to the strangers.
Rooms turning gold in the morning
Never able to ignore the sun's stripping glow.
Nothing is wrong with quenching a thirst
Except when you're an insect piercing skin.
Taylor A. Olson
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