The Road is Made of Hexagons

Hoping for destination, she 

gropes toward brightness,

across spaces like tundras.

Wandering lost, Finally

she claims an omen.

Manipulating once blinding light,

she can see 

the road is made of hexagons

and leads to 

the smell of crushed mint,

as earth settles in her hair.

But as he looks at her through blue, blue eyes,

She feels she needs to leave

before entangling limbs become a 

prison,

and she willingly submits

to the song of his lostness.

Once far away and whole she smiles

Remembering his eyes. 

blue, blue eyes.

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