Patterns

The lonely call to action,
random intervals and inconvenient,
a figurative mass
of the drowning and the surface
Shapes of Motion
The days are the shapes of motion,
formations extended bursting outward
The majestic solitude of flight,
ghosts across the landscape
Echoes and ringing and screeching halts,
the drift you feel so deliberate
Deaths become marks on a timeline
Pain becomes a void sprung forth from
The days are the shadows reflecting
more than just time or light
The motion ever-defining what it means
to scan or to plot the course
I’m looking at my hand as a map,
so coarse and worn, so often used
I’m the jagged detail that is cast
The spade that plants the stake
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