wrong lane

the birds fly
carrying
bits of yarn
in beak
to build a nest

i imagine.

the burden bears
down
upon me
as the hollow bones
ride the air
above.

and i feel
a burning inside
to matter
to build a nest
or
be the string
in which
it is started.

it feels like

everything
points
to hopeless

even as i

hope
it isn’t all
pointless.

so

i watch
with bated breath
breathing
the bait
of another day
spent trapped
in the wrong

lane.

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