US427
Fragile lives
Bullet into the ground near
Half the speed of sound
Gray hairs speckle a bald head
A rich dark forest
One moon past
Anxiousness about arriving to
Loved ones' greetings
Seatbacks and trays
In upright position
Fresh lemon scent of
Faces cleansed with little white cloths
Where does one go
When we are not moving forward,
Ever forward, anymore?
Could all we are be dust in the wind?
But then dust cannot love.
