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The leaves crackle

beneath boots heavy

with our tension


the thread winds

and it winds

and it winds,

stretched taut


with every word

yelled quietly.

A game of telephone


family gossip factory
pumping out misspoken

and misheard

words. Peacemaker


sticking their nose in the

cerulean fire.

On forced walks


we pick pinecones

and get pricked

by their sharp

edges hard enough



to cause pain,

not quite to bleed.

Outside the pine walls


where my windpipe

can fall open

hearth smoke drifts and congests

and it smells like autumn.

My Year of Unrest: a collection of poems I wrote in 2020Where stories live. Discover now