Hills

I live for roadside education.
How are you so satisfied with being empty?
Or is it that you are so easily filled?
Enough to be satisfied by who you are?

So, now,
with that so easy to part with,
swallow this:
This time that I leave
I go there to rot.

Because I am only filled by some bizarre home in
the gray and green,
in a forgotten and simple place.
Where I am part of the world and it
is not part of me.
I cannot be bothered by being known.
I am here to see to see to see.

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