to know the top

climb and catch the reaches
steep, the air cold, the path crude;
look to constant stars

pocket protector

you would not know this
a dream i have kept inside
a pocket, to hold

there it is loose but
the grip is a comfort, a
note, corners crumbling

ink: washed out
lines: ablur
feeling:
bold

firstly: yes

stop me for good reason
whisk me somewhere that takes the b r e a t h

or
let
me
run