Wrapping my favorite,
Gray and black rose cloak
Around my low hanging shoulders,
I hit he door way to another world again.
Too heavy to understand.
Hiding only tired eyes.
I just let my hair be wild now.
I no longer care what the world has to say.
I let my eyes carry their sorrow and growing disdain.
One thousand, one hundred and twenty-five days.
A taste of salt that never strays.
Dreams twisted and frayed-
Constantly choking me when I wake.
It’s four lanes whether
I’m barely breathing or burning alive.
Shedding that tread like each new skin.
Makes me wonder,
Which darkly named
Street corner shadow
Is following me now?”
Because I don’t even turn round to see.
I just know,
It’s never going to have me.
There are too many miles,
Full of beauty, life, destiny-
Just ahead of these gnarled, erratic, and decayed trees.
Backstreet Healing: Corporal phantom