The stones of this road hurt my feet,
asphalt, tar and concrete,
broken – not of gravel;
not of an Earthly vassal.
Just poverty of being,
scars, blood and things of little meaning,
aspects of how time made us,
“alright-“ as tokens on an abacus.
An appetite for tragedy,
cries of soothing rhapsody,
cathartic – still a selfish future;
still blind to the splendor of our nature.
Inhaled like smoke in the eye,
no Vietnam war - no poems by Robert Bly,
just a soulless form of no more,
much the same - morality of a whore.
Wandering under broken street lamps,
unable to rest or settle like a tramp,
scrounging for change along the tracks,
waiting for the train to take us back.