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
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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.