I found my wants in a pile of residual snow.

As if, it had no place left to go.

Over the wrecked rectory on the hill.

Beyond the country store where the town drunks get their fill.

Ten miles past Franklin Motel.

A habitat for the loners looking to get out of hell.

I nudged my desires with a blackened steel toe.

As if, I had no place left to go.

Years before gravity took hold.

I fanned a flame to a luxurious limbo.

It had been an overfed shelter of lust and misconstrued need.

But my flame grew higher and harder to fed.

I kicked at the embers.

Such as I do now.

With a lessened ego.

Ash to ash…I made sure it had no place left to go.

It would appear that contentment starts slow.

As in the vacant burning back lots.

As in the gradual interment of lack luster thoughts.

Standing over the stained melting snow.

I now have some place that I can go.

 

 

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