I trace out a forest with my fingers.
Trees rise like cities.
Naked branches blush under the full evergreen.
The sun or moon looked like a orange creamsicle
and night is falling like a black veil every step I take.
Visions of indians behind the embancment of the railroad
brings me paranoia and the swans slung out on the pond like garden light bulb reflecting in the sky.
It all escapes me as the day goes colorblind.
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Comments about this poem (powderfinger by jerome moore )
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