I stand at the edge of another Monday,
boots crusted with dust from a paddock
I never meant to cross.
The sky doesn’t speak—it broods,
like it’s waiting for me to say
the thing I’ve swallowed for years.
There’s a fog settling across the plain.
Not the cool kind that comforts the gullies,
but the one that creeps in just before
......
I stand at the edge of another Monday,
boots crusted with dust from a paddock
I never meant to cross.
The sky doesn’t speak—it broods,
like it’s waiting for me to say
the thing I’ve swallowed for years.
There’s a fog settling across the plain.
Not the cool kind that comforts the gullies,
but the one that creeps in just before
......