Holes in their shoes filled with wood chips and pebbles alike,
A bench that is frequented but never used,
Why stop and breathe the air when it whips past when running?
Effervescent qualities of these little life, I used to hold but lost with time,
Punctuated, pulsing, parting paths.
For some oblivious, for some cautious,
Knee scrapes and splinters akin, blood has a different meaning guarded by youth,
Trial scorned the innocent and bruised lineages,
All lonesome, she said, can't be helped these days.
No comments:
Post a Comment