Heaven makes a tired road
with fevered sheets
and a dragging load.
The gypsy miles I tread alone,
my head in bag,
hence the load.

The marching horizon
slows my pace,
a stranger passes without a face.
With ankles twisting in the wind
a dream of somewhere I've never been.

With each step I forever go
I ponder if this jacket
is fur or faux?
Yet my only thought from ages back
was who's head fit inside this sack?

So here I move,solid I glide
like describing a picture
of a headless hitchiker
in need of a ride.

05/11/2011