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The old traveler takes a pause
beneath an oak of age untold
whose roots grasp the earth like giant claws
near to a spring that's clear and bold.

A declining house with roof of tin
broods silently with empty windows,
a remnant of the world" back when"
whose roof flaps when hard winds blow.

For now that wind comes from the west.
It smells of moss, of leaves....of years
setting my thoughts on a vague quest,
loosening some long still gears.

The air of which the wind is made
didn't appear just for me
to think about here in the shade
of how breezes are wild and free.

When done with me where will wind go?
Over these hills then out to sea
to the Atlantic where hurricanes grow
and with such storm come back to me?

Or will it cross the sea to land
traversing Europe then India
whispering by cathedrals, grand
then maybe south eastern Asia?

And on its ventures who can know
how many people breathed it in and out
or how many trees its carbon helped to grow
as it travelled randomly all about?

The folks who once lived in this shack
although gone now for a long time,
might a molecule of one breath have come back
and prodded me to write this rhyme?

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 


I caught on to the rhythm of this pretty easily and it didn't waver too much. You brought the story out as easy as the breeze that blew by me just now. I wonder... it did sort have a Southern twang in the passing... anyway, just a little crit. here. "On it's ventured who can know"? Not sure what that means.
~ Gee.

Come to Chat on the Darkside
every other Saturday night 8pm to ?
Bring your dark and delicious work
to show.

damned typo lol. Thanks for the eagle eye. Got it fixed now.

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