Warm ephemeral currents comfort the breath,
abolition from cruel winter snaps, relief for a season.
No doubts or madness perturb, like poor Macbeth.
Brush and rain, waiting and preparation for this reason
That no sheep can but wander lost,
strange streets and dying wheat obscure the way.
Dogs and pigs turn to attack the voice along paths crossed
navigating a parched urban desert, replete with neon display
A hawk circles, though I am under his wings;
my nest is calling me back to rest.
Fallen stars and triumphant venoms may sting,
as the road’s light brightens this lifelong test.
I am not sure why but Substack's Poetry spacing has failed me :(