A Year of Poems – Day 295

I lost myself in the grapevine,
Deep in the muted green light,
I was hiding from the story
In a cloister of poetic device,
For the light was pure and unaltered
As it passed through the green leafy lens
And the narrative voice could not touch me
In the soft wood lined walls of my den.
But the bard in my head kept on singing
With a narrator’s unflagging pace
For we cannot run from the story,
Green light was a breath in the race.


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