cumberland waters, where echoes lie,
whispered tales of newness and air,
of love’s lost luck and a day without glare
from the mirror of self-aware.
A courthouse square, weathered but proud,
different history lingering, my disembodied voice in the crowd,
the windows of antique shops with stories untold,
your memories framed in window lettering gold,
waiting for your academia to be sold.
Bluegrass fields that stretch to the horizon’s yawn,
horses grazing calm in the blush of dawn,
hills that roll like a dream set free,
a rhythm of life that matches the breeze
you left behind in NYC.
What’s in Monticello, Kendra Jean,
a slower heartbeat or extended family anxiety?
It’s not the rush or the curiosity,
but the comfort of stars on a nostalgic night,
reading my dumb poetry by the blog's light.
In Kentucky’s southern hills,
a canvas of whispers turn you blue,
and it is no secret that I miss you,
each word I write is a pathetic plea to be free.
a compass that will always lead you to me.
and it is no secret that I miss you,
each word I write is a pathetic plea to be free.
a compass that will always lead you to me.