I don’t identify
With chasers of the storm,
Much less see eye to eye
With keepers in the warm.

It doesn’t matter where
My body’s always at;
I’m neither here nor there.
There’s no mistaking that.

And, as for all the things
Which everybody owns,
I’d gladly cut the strings
Which tied me to those stones.

I’m something all the way,
But what, I couldn’t say.

Photo by Andre Mouton on Unsplash

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