Jungle

Morning grazes
on the sky as
all things grey,

And turn with the
winds on corners
where streets change.

Distant voices whisper
through concrete
heartbeats, echo,

Borders where the
grass is met.
Frost burns on

uncut blades as they
burst through cold,
through frigid air.

Callow paths wind,
frame the house
of walls and doors,

To be stepped on
in turn with
a coming of life.

Morning grazes
on the sky as
all things grey

and grey and grey.

jungle001

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