Traveler - Michael Washburn

The train that streams through forest To an inn on a corner Where all seasons raise their voices, Leaves you alone, a novice, unversed in Flight, meeting echoes of reason In polite circles of a poison bough. You whom vile strangers would accost, Who would hold the shining moment aloft, Stay the time-worm’s hunger in the soul’s red sand, Move not with ostentation, for here beckons the gate.

Michael Washburn Is a Brooklyn-based writer. His work has appeared in Rosebud, Green Hills Literary Lantern, Concho River Review, Stand, Still Point Arts Quarterly, and other publications.

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