A peregrine has no home

I am lover left unamazed
Had I not just hovered miles, heading
Heart-first into night

To quell my search for injustice I
Bred within myself
O’, I will be okay, but perhaps not

This week, perhaps have I not
Floated on too long that ground already
Feels absent, and in my heathened

Hardened, halt-adjacent memoir in its current making
I can forego into closing of a book unrivaled, unread, the taste of
Pages on Someones’ lips

I shimmy into roads, the chimney of sorrowful Bountiene
Frank, will I be luckier the next try? Or would I
Be (more or just) as excited, again, to decamp

Guess I had to see for myself
I have no say in the matter
Just a slave to weary wings

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