the Substance of Letting Go


The further away I get from the stagnation.

The more at ease I feel.

Yet, an inquiry begging me.

How far does the embattled flee.


There is nothing poetic to be said, about mid winter’s thaw.

The lurking of a musky past.

Pungent and raw.


Abandonment coming in lanky, sodden trials and tribulations.

Walks pardoning deliberate, devastation.

Renewed faith in the substance of letting go


walking away.

A once in a lifetime decision to remain frozen…

would allow the dirty to decay.


My thoughts crippled in the mud of old snow.

My stride enlightened



The further the distance between

the thaw



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