Tigs Huertas

The Call, The Answer

I, the magnet
gravity-held,
plummeting headlong,
medium fast,
attracting curious metals.
Logical ways
I've yet to fathom.
Calling silent, unknowing.
Subconsciously aware.

Who is drawn forth?

Travellers, strangers;
people from afar,
their deepest roots
delved ever-longĀ 
fed and grown in
Distant soil.
As if this note aloneĀ 
becomes the safety chord,
the mercy word.
Their displaced presence
proof of ever-rolling transience.

Moving, as we both are
makes no need
of promises,
moss or earth.



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