Dark Moor
A wintery sun slips under a flat horizon.
No faraway lights to guide me,
just this pitch-dark moor and a racing pulse.
I was thinking too much or not enough,
long walks can turn you into
a cart horse hauling around an unlit mind.
The chill air bites through to fear.
Not knowing where I was or should be,
eyes much too wide to measure distance.
Goat paths crisscross under my boots.
A sheep calls to an invisible flock.
North somewhere, a frigid car sleeps.
People die like this, lost, and blinded
by their own senses. Not I; stumbling on,
I survive to write it down.
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