The evening after a day of traveling

Fatigue spreads
Through my worn out feet
Into the soil of my body
The heart is bright loving
Alive
With great promise
Of deep poetry
That flows
Through my tired hands
Onto the screen of my phone

I am a digital poet
On a path paved with pretty paper
In front of me, the journal that rests on
My thighs, that can barely keep
My journal up for me to see it
My poetry loves to
Flow faster than my hand can write
So I type and try to keep up
Reluctantly

The lines don’t shape like language
Should, and yet I love that,
Haphazard breath half way
Between the lines
I am too tired to care
And that is good

My poetry flows like a river
Seeking pathways to
Unknown territory
It finds itself anew and
Even through a tired body
It creates itself on the screen
Of my phone

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