Poetry

Quest

Down a winding river
of asphalt past untold
dead does
limbs akimbo
and bloated
Deeper still
into dense
winter woods
to get the goods
To an old shack
out back of a farm
To a dusty shelf graced
by three mason jars
of liquid gold
Raw
unfiltered
sourwood
honey
and I gave him the money
Slipping away
quietly smiling
at my clandestine
score

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