by John Herzog

On Monday, I was dropped into a field of forget-me-nots
and towering dandelions as grey as the sky.
They told me to sit down and stay,
that there was no path to escape.
All they gave me was a pair of shoes,
with faded reddish colors
and holes growing in the soles.
The blades of grass were sharp
and cold to the touch,
but there was only one thing to do:
They were right.
There are no paths through the weeds,
so I blazed my own,
through the deep cuts
and the frigid lifelessness
and flowers I’d much rather forget
through every blister on my heels
and every shortness of breath…


Posted on 05/31/2009
Copyright © 2021 John Herzog

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