Walking Home

 

I stagger blindly with sleep filled eyes,
as my mediocrity is exposed
to all.

I'm cold in this dewy pasture.
My socks; wet through my shoes
and my breath is smoke.

Home lies uphill, a steep climb.
Hope is lost.
I do not feel.

The dandelions are closed up
hiding their petals from the frost.
I wish I was a dandelion.

The pain in my bones
deadens my steps.
I am walking clay.

---

written June 16, 2005