My land is bare of chattering folk;
The clouds are low along the ridges,
And sweet’s the air with curly smoke
From all my burning bridges.
My land is bare of chattering folk;
The clouds are low along the ridges,
And sweet’s the air with curly smoke
From all my burning bridges.
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this reminded me of yams… and hot bitches i met on the street corners at nite waiting only for to do annything o yes indeed
The way she worded this poem captures the attitude I had leaving highschool and beginning college…never seeing those “chattering folks” again and happily watching “bridges”—or so-called friendships burn up in “curly smoke”.