It’s days like these
When even doves can’t catch a break
And they leave only wind, dust behind
Past their little fluttering feet
And there’s only white noise
In every part of town but
To run is only to catch up
With some retreating sound. Me,
I’m attracted to this dust
The grime that drips, drips because
It reminds me of myself
In a way, the imperfections in
My walk, my talk, my choices
I’m a piece of tattered paper
Blown through and through
An old alleyway, coffee-stained,
Trampled on, kicked aside,
But still traveling, begging
To be read, and not discarded
I’d rather be a beggar who haunts
Than a mountain who taunts
Throwing rocks on every exit

04/18/2010

Posted on 04/19/2010
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