Can’t see the path.
Sight…twisted.

Scrabble with bare hands,
in barren lands. Paved with
broken dreams.
Chose tortured rocks that
scrape and claw.

Baggage…

Coated with old blood,
brown and chalky with age.
Share new blood like the Last Supper.

How comforting to slum the old way.
Curled up on cold tile,
sleeping, barefoot…broken.

Spirit slipping through cracks.