"Winter"
snow is falling somewhere in the hills of Oregon,
will I end up there again this year?
today the sun burns bright in San Francisco,
perhaps instead I'll end up near the bay.
flying high away from the grey skies,
the lies that drove me north, I've overcome.
I'm done running,
I'm done hiding in the corner,
it's over -- the torture I put myself through.
spiraling opportunities,
like infinite leaves in a swirling wind,
should I be so lucky to catch one,
before they reach the ground again?















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