A line crosses the dusty plain pulled by it’s ends
Chiseled for centuries, peaks rise robustly toward deep blue
The arid air pulls breath from my unspoken mouth long left parched by doubt and crime
Clouds bleed across the sky
The damned stay withered under coffee stained landscapes and teeth
A single road passes forward like a long twine spun from desert temperaments
I feel my soul drift down that road, glancing at the lies, loves and dreams of what I once was.
I cannot touch thistle or thorn
My veins never to pulse again
The wire tightens around my ankle
I waste away from a life and bone less lived
No wooden post will hold my soul
Broken
Forlorn
Sage
Stone
Wire and Wood
Ten Graces, LLC 