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Ought to be

It would be folly to consider myself
where I ought to be, as if ‘ought’
could glow in your hand
like half-eaten candy thawing
memories under open clouds.

What hubris man to divine
import from earth-bound particles
bouncing among people walking
heads down, the center of it all.

Heavenly bodies revolve
around some other lantern
the same as me, sticky fingers
sweeter from the journey.

Lightness

The moonlight sang that song
we can’t remember, invisible wings
cascading through the valiant wind
as the stairs insist
on climbing up.
Up.

Up where time remains an afterthought,
or hangs on the moonlight
nearly in the future. Time always comes,
playing metronome while weightless,
feigning lightness
to ease the ascent.

Rest

The colorless tale revealed
the thunder within the traveler,
lost among thoughts of another drab day
absent the echoing light
normally demanding something
approaching the end.

Rest — or the appearance
of cloudy dreams lifting him
above
the gray skies
underfoot — is and end
itself and to him,
thundering only a little longer.

Clouded future

Time was an afterthought
as the clouds called us to attention,
demanding we acknowledge
through misty eyes
or other fog-soaked facilities
the half-eaten candy of a pastoral dream
where rolling grasses trampled
through an otherwise quiet afternoon.

The half-hidden sun
implored us to come outside,
though we misunderstood
as he went in circles for days,
refusing to get to the point,
so we sat inside, anticipation dawning
with dew-drenched ideas of misadventures
masked by another day’s ascent.

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About Me

Phillip Knight Scott is a native of Durham, North Carolina, where he lives, writes, and watches old episodes of Doctor Who. He’s only recently published his first collection of poems: Paint the Living, Plant the Dead. His poems have appeared in numerous publications including Galway Review, Vita Brevis Press, Olive Skin, Spillwords, and others.

His debut novel, The Alien in the Backseat, is available on Amazon.

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