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Wherever It May Go
by Scott Thomas Outlar

 
Her skeleton legs
stretch out through the fog
of my hazy intentions,
my muddled recollections,
my grit torn, whitewashed,
blacked out, gray perceptions.

Her winnowing path
is not paved in concrete facts,
but can only be traveled
by those light of foot
and willing
to leave the abstract horrors
of yesterday’s towns
and tomorrow’s unknown destinations
in the realm of nowhere nothingness
where all might-have-beens
and still-could-bes belong.

Her mangled elusiveness
draws me into a grainy web of distortion,
and though we both have
our set of scars,
we also have the eternal Nowness
of this One primal moment
that pierces down to the marrow –
so we dance with these hollow bones
along this path to our grave,
laughing in the madness all the while.

 
Posted by David Evans
 

David Evans, Feature Editor
 
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