a poem by Kyle Dixon, Senior English Education Major
a car goes by, maybe it was red
but it might have been blue distracted by the rattling of a stop sign nearby
as it shook, violently, in the wind a splatter of something, stained, on the sidewalk
and a pile of dead leaves which remembers that street which holds so many memories,
littered with the remnants left behind bylast fall a time for growth, surrounded by decay, swooped up in a whirlwind of the forgottenpast trying so desperately to be remembered
unforgotten, and still relevant, yet the currents of the present day swallow, restricting
the possibilities and could-have-beensfrom yesterday caught in a cycle of decision, unsure which direction will lead
the right way, the one, true way that will lead to a familiar place,
or something which can be held, static unchanged, yet uniquely itself, and timeless like grandfather’s clock
hoping to be noticed, understood by the passersby that appear aimless, lacking
a sense of direction up down, left right, back forwards, upside down
all leading back to nowhere, or maybe
somewhere i should know, where the familiar marble colored rocks
lining the rusted metal tracks, held together
only by the rotting wood that clings to its purpose so, desperately
in a familiar place, that only allows for thepast to become present
in a perplexing perspective, shifting with each rambling
prudent thought, caught in a net, trapped, yet
free in the possibility, a fresh start, brought about
by the constant, unchanging nature of that which is supposed to be alive
held together by the hope, aspiration, construction
of something new, something unfounded, yet
remains grounded in the past
much like the remnants of artificial grass, alas
it all comes to a head in the crash, falling
and conjoining, forming one final finale
a thought, that thought, unfounded by the surround sound
of a fallen, downed system that needs theworld to hold it up
left, only to be bled dry by the ones who claim a watchful eye
drowning, underground in a place that feels familiar, again
unsure where to turn, which direction to follow, overwhelmed
by the potential for an experiential time, and
remains forgotten, erased by time
leaving nothing behind
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