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a poem by Kyle Dixon, Senior English Education Major


a car goes by, maybe it was red

but it might have been blue distracted by the rattling of a stop sign nearby

as it shook, violently, in the wind a splatter of something, stained, on the sidewalk

and a pile of dead leaves which remembers that street which holds so many memories,

littered with the remnants left behind bylast fall a time for growth, surrounded by decay, swooped up in a whirlwind of the forgottenpast trying so desperately to be remembered

unforgotten, and still relevant, yet the currents of the present day swallow, restricting

the possibilities and could-have-beensfrom yesterday caught in a cycle of decision, unsure which direction will lead

the right way, the one, true way that will lead to a familiar place,

or something which can be held, static unchanged, yet uniquely itself, and timeless like grandfather’s clock

hoping to be noticed, understood by the passersby that appear aimless, lacking

a sense of direction up down, left right, back forwards, upside down

all leading back to nowhere, or maybe

somewhere i should know, where the familiar marble colored rocks

lining the rusted metal tracks, held together

only by the rotting wood that clings to its purpose so, desperately

in a familiar place, that only allows for thepast to become present

in a perplexing perspective, shifting with each rambling

prudent thought, caught in a net, trapped, yet

free in the possibility, a fresh start, brought about

by the constant, unchanging nature of that which is supposed to be alive

held together by the hope, aspiration, construction

of something new, something unfounded, yet

remains grounded in the past

much like the remnants of artificial grass, alas

it all comes to a head in the crash, falling

and conjoining, forming one final finale

a thought, that thought, unfounded by the surround sound

of a fallen, downed system that needs theworld to hold it up

left, only to be bled dry by the ones who claim a watchful eye

drowning, underground in a place that feels familiar, again

unsure where to turn, which direction to follow, overwhelmed

by the potential for an experiential time, and

remains forgotten, erased by time

leaving nothing behind

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