A Poem

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Photo by Author

Trees are hollow.
I noticed that when I went to the park today.
They’re just tall, winding tubes, parting and branching,
around a petrified core.

Are we hollow as well?
Our feelings and thoughts,
our touching and being touched:
Aren’t they just a thin film of life,
barely skin-deep?

And the slumbering hopes and ideals underneath,
all our forgotten convictions and fears:
Aren’t they just layer upon layer of who we once were?
light and dry now

I wonder how it would be to venture down.
if it would feel like returning to somewhere familiar
welcoming still of who I’ve become
or if things might be moving and shifting deep within
like a tectonic dream
making me buckle and shiver and wonder at…

Sometimes neither WhatsApp, Facebook, or Signal will do — but an old fashioned and simple solution just might!

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Photo by Marjan Grabowski on Unsplash

I know what you’re thinking: “Why would you even do that? It’s over, they’ve moved on. So don’t be selfish.” …

sun glaring down from the weather hill
eyes on the ground for the breakfast drill

neck likes to bend, play the gentleman
play you may, thinks the head, but be gentle then

don’t pretend like this bend might bear fruit someday
I can’t see, I can’t breathe, while I’m forced to pray

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Photo by Author, 2017

Originally published on Wetterleuchten on April 26, 2020.


David A. Loibl

on a quest to trade my lazy cleverness for disciplined bewilderment • poetry and essays • focused on perception, identity, philosophy, sociology & language

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