I find a home within
the falling leaves,
the torn pages of history
that land at my feet.
I build a nest from the remains,
plucking the best parts
to shield from today.
Maybe I was born
in the wrong timeline,
if I’d walked in the
countryside that inspired
words to be picked
like delicate fruit
from a vine.
Would my heart pour easier
like a fine wine?
I find little fragments of stories,
stuck in the hard-to-reach places
high in the trees.
I stretch and reach,
to tease them free,
until they become
a part of my little nested city.
You see I've built a whole country
from all the strands I find,
I plan to plant mountains soon,
and new forests
to replenish
the words over time.
I have rivers flowing,
watering the seeds
plucked from my mind.
There is a whole ecosystem,
plants living and breathing,
and the animals
that weave between them.
All feeding the ground,
this big old town,
crowded with new words
to throw around.
And now I stand
upon a world of stories,
I realise it's not that different
from the world outside.
Those stories have always lived
in the trees, in the people
that weave in and out of your life,
like the breath you breathe,
leaving
but only after giving you
the air you need
to feed the stories inside.
Thanks for reading
Follow this link for more.
https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff
continue to do this.
Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle
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