Somewhere in Their Midst

Flush of the Sky,

in rain is sought

temporal melodies,

the Earth

surpass redemption in the dawn.


Mellow blue of dusk,

its emptied quality,

tired-weight appearance,

forlorn in leaving.


Somewhere in their midst,

I blink and rage,

my lost contour a fog,

decision of a ghost

to attempt to be seen, perhaps

to be believed.



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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020

BC, Canada