At Twenty Seven


There is light behind these eyes

and rivers flowing between mountains

bare feet have tread upon


when valleys were deeper

than the worries that traveled them.


There are scars, unseen

behind precious little lies;

feet of crows remaining

after smiles fade

and whispers become the voice

that roared when starlight shone

upon falling wishes

of some restless romantic.


Too many moons

have made way for suns

rising like legends

that fell at twenty seven


never seeing past the blur;

the power one hungers for

until the lights go down


and things are not so pretty,



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