the skin of my land

I’m a runner with my feet firmly planted.
I’ve trekked miles but no surface.
I love without the skin of new lands to touch.
I’m hiking across a squeezed-up flesh earth;
grass, mountain and river,
overshadowed by lyric and verse.
I’m uprooted, moving daily from place to place
in the secluded parts of myself
covered in skin and skull bone.
I’m home, in the ink and the browning paper
I’m home, in the windowsill’s potted plants green
I’m home. All I need is to see.

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