A Whistle from the Birch

Ominous, as the whistle through the birch.

Watchful eyes.

Vacant as the day, they left this earth.

A distant voice.

Peaceful with the way we hurt.

Primitive in an organic manner.

Crowded blank, planks.

Rotten with the insight.

A casualty has come to stay.

Isolated, during early morning…

When the sun rests behind shade.

A time…

When the wind calls her name.

Born to a similar batch of thorns.

I came in search of sameness.

But from a different point of view.

Deep in the knotted, hollow…

My attempt at name calling, a bit askew.

The small town in me…

Brought distant sounds closer.


scouring me of victim’s debris.

A voice…



knocking on wood.

In the cleanse of a passing shower.

A calling from above,

‘I would let go…If I only could.’



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