Where Small Feet Tread
12-1-2010, The Jotter
A gray ribbon of cracked road stretches off through the crowding trees,
I suppose it was always there. A dark shape, a snare on the primitive brain Raising primitive hackles, Itself old, ancient, and no longer believed in, Forgotten.
The recent rain resurrecting from the road a curtain of wavering steam
It's always there, though, a warped shape leading Into the trees, hovering over the path. I sometimes took it, that Crook in time, at the end.
Lit from above by a hidden oblivious sun.
And the people walking beneath it, Nakedly wanting, Desiring its old adulation. Demanding Its old offerings...sigh.Walking on the old road, in the sweating heat, works the mind.