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Oakley

Traveling across
The divide of heart and mind
We find a tender trap of
Imaginative devotion combined

In Oakley, we stumble upon
Skies the color of beryl,
Flashed upon gray, misted
Clouds, whom helplessly hover into
Their shifting shapes and thoughts of peril

Beneath the tentative,
Twisting, watching skies
A coiled mahogany tree
Aids a wooden swing unto its inevitable demise

Occurring, right of us
Sits a black forest
Upon several "stir-stick" thin trees
Flowers do not flourish
In the ground of this leaf bedridden sea

Bearing the swing,
We hear the soft,
Mellow bells of silence
The nocturnal calm of viva voce doffed

Surrounding us,
A rolling upon rolling
Of quiescent hills
Unravel their ongoing dry longing

The taste of earth,
Stale and current,
Awakens me to the pastoral clutch
Of tormented tranquility

This is Oakley,
A parched and beautiful canvas
The Utopia of my mind




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