I can’t see the path.
My sight is twisted.
I scrabble with bare hands,
in barren lands.
Highway scrapes and claws,
for I chose the tortured rocks.
I pave my path with broken dreams.
Baggage…
Coated with old blood,
brown and chalky with age.
I share new blood like the Last Supper.
How comforting to slum the old way.
Curled up on cold tile,
sleeping, barefoot and broken.
Spirit slipping through the cracks.