It is of the deepest muck from which human desperation derives.
When the greatest humidity chokes the air, and daylight dries every upturned stone,
Still there remains, beneath wholly full trees, puddles fermenting in their own waste.
We follow the designated path until it appears no longer before us, and,
With every Darwinian instinct, we break free, in flight. The vast skies forgotten above our heads.
The wilderness, a desert landscape. Our very legs appear to stretch, begging escape from our hips
Sodden leaves stick and grow as mounds over sneakers once laced so tight
Claw the molding decay. Dig into the remnants of your sanity to find the utter purity of your feet,
Feet which twitch in memory of secure paths you’d once stepped across.
The upturned stones mock in their supposed perfection, isolated from the muck
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