365 Days of Poetry: Day Two-Hundred and Thirty-One

it is late morning.
I feel alive again.
home is not a place.
it is an attitude.
I’ve sorely missed.
running into.
a pantheon of words.
I have not uttered.
for ninety-two long days.
the accents my salvation.
the green my release.

triangle stacked on triangle.
circle and then center.
these are the lofty ambitions.
formed by men of letters.
Poe lived in Richmond.
but we have the grave.
the spoils of debauchery.
we mourn, and we pray.


About June Faramore

Writer of fantasy, mainstream, and young adult fiction. Poet and sketcher. Mother. I read a lot and love cheese. Guitar playing singer-songwriter. I also enjoy stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk. View all posts by June Faramore

this side, that side

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