In the unmapped country

Across a swollen river

and beyond forbidding mountains,

there are less traveled paths

vaguely scented by those who came before.

The unhappy lost don't make a community,

if you must know,

but a nation of ghosts that walk through one another.

They narrate to roots made for tripping

sands crafted for burning

and to other deaf witnesses,

they speak the sorrows of their banishment.

There is poetry here,

alliteration that flows over riverbed

in the manner of the perfect spherical.

Smooth.

Rhyme rises from footprint and morning,

and rhythm comes without invite.

And it is not that there's nothing to share

that there is no one who will understand;

but this is the way of this temporality,

there are hundreds who have memorized

the cartography of Solitude,

they know it so well

that they remain silent.

For over the mountains and across the river

there is a land that time will not forget

a land of root and sand,

that tripped heart and cut soul,

which is why the grass here grows in unimaginable greens,

simply, they are made fertile

by the liquids that abandonment rains.