The hum of traffic
pours down foggy streets;
sound billows like smoke
through the trees.
Where do you go?
Why do you weave
in and out of traffic
like a ribbon of snake,
forked tongue licking the breeze?
It’s all make believe,
this urgency of life’s
movement from
one place to another.
Shattered moments of day
are relegated to tired memory.
Day falls into night,
and night is a sleep
where soft owls call
from the dark.
Where do you go
when you dream?
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