alternate (poem)

Alana Hoskins

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a distant dust field rises,

melancholy and choleric,

and i float my fingers through the watery static

and pray that i’ll be alright.


this is where i find myself after

doing time for spreading whispers,

rallying silent conspirators,

treason against better judgement.


there is no sun here, only

the gentle, sorrow-laden light

of too long, too hard, too loved

and here, we rest.