projecting

the wind is white noise through the trees
screaming soft like a hoarse and wordless whisper
and sedentary is a good thing today
(or maybe sedimentary who’s to say);
how many times can i look to the blue
and sit in the golden spill across my body?
again and again and again without complaint.
time has taken restless, ill-advised activity
and turned it to restless, ill-advised words
that spill ceaselessly into bright, sharp being
like untamed whips with wills of their own
projecting my painlovejoyhateglory to the world.

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