Whither I Stroll
Into a great silver realm of night I go,
and strange paths I find winding
whither I stroll;
Jutting spear-fences cutting, tipped
frozen cold,
against a misted moon;
Twinkling snow on the death of eve,
When stray cats envy the warm windows....
And strangers in little alien-coves
seek their familiar front-door homes,
sometimes, I too
(suddenly)
feel alone
winding down strange paths,
whither I stroll
Copyright © Keith O.J. Hunt | Year Posted 2014
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