by Mitch Estern
nothing interests me—
not even the dark,
nor the scorching hell,
nor the fields afar.
but each time I come
to places I know not,
familiarity settles on
distorted, distant thoughts.
all I ever know:
I am a tall, wandering soul
on isles of cold, hard stone;
still, quiet, alone.
© Mitch Estern
Mitch Estern (he/they) is the pseudonym of a poet who mainly presents himself in the guise of a duck to the virtual world. He started as a storyteller, dipped into songwriting, and a yearning romantic most of all. More of his poetry can be found on Threads, on @mitchestern.
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