The Gazebo (or lack thereof)

By: Conor Van Riper

Running down the path

beneath despotic

canopy, tangled,

retiring for not;

witness divergent

branches submit to

placid grey.

Trot to examine the

elegant flora, flowing

gust commandeers leaf.

Stone­-held moss


Standing silently,

absorbed by the gaze,

point of convergence;

grey meets evergreen.

Evade duties that enslave,

lose the self to where

the gazebo once was.

Make no problem of presence,

which God we come from,

unwelcome is such a form,

hoist your burdens,

pick up your pace.

Let the posts
come to you.

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