Little traveller, should you choose to run blind
through the slanted afternoon sunlight,
take no notice of the sputtering engines and breaking glass
that pollute these brittle autumn days.
Kick the grit from underneath your city stained soles,
breathe in October dusted clean of clouds,
bitter frost scraping your weathered lungs.
Draw maps across the backs of your hands,
etch a path into the cracks of your chapped skin
to remember the mosaic of winding trails.
Here along the frostbitten skyline,
all you're left with is the flickering of a sallow street light
and the beating of your own startled heart.
The noise and clutter of the world begin to soften,
the mantras we chant in our minds turn to mutters,
and all of this commotion melts into a quiet
like the epilogue to a dying rainstorm.
Share This Poem