Poem-A-Day: Day 268

Remembrance of Feet

Cobblestone feet ramble on
disjointed down the road,
both long as it is wide.
The sound of passing tires
irk tired eyes open to the blindness
and pity surrounding terraformations
blissfully writing on the ground.
It doesn’t seem possible,
but the complications spelled perfectly
along the side of a passing bus
allowed such a moment to occur.
All these things seem dreamlike,
but there’s no actual evidence of sleep
aside from the passing clouds within grasp.

“Don’t give up,” I hear.
“Don’t give up.”

I’m not aware of the sounds,
or where they’ve managed to come from,
I’m only aware that something has happened,
something that is unrecognizable to faith
in man, god, beast, or child.
I give my praise to the sword,
or the pen’s closest facsimile.
I laugh about how close a pen is
to my penis, except for size and weight mostly.
Regardless, I remember the fact that I shouldn’t,
at least not give up.
If I could only remember
what I actually gave up in the first place,
but all I remember is my feet walking slowly.