Pounding, pounding, pulsating, breathing, dying needing, he always wanted more. Heartbeat, bare feet are walking for a lifetime.
The percussion of the mind -- starts the rhythm, bring the rhyme. One step, one step, one step, he foxtrots over the mine; sweeping, only to bomb on the climb. Discovering dirt and despair, feels tears and tares to challenge his cares.
He might have died. He would have, he could have, he shouldn’t have, and he did not. He’s on the other side. He holds a hand that’s not his own. It moves him and the need for life he owns.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
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