The dust I kicked up from my walk is gone.
It must have settled in the ruined stone,
in cracks where flowers sway, perfect their con
pretending they smell sweeter than they’re known.
I let the moss grow on my head and eyes,
reminding me of forests I once stalked.
My chest has lost its fire – here it lies
in embers spent on food, and drink, and talk.
I slouch among my still and smiling friends,
whose lips are sealed with plaster, clay, and vines.
The winds are singing for them, to their ends,
that journey’s end is sweetest, loved by pines.
Then stars like crickets in the night leap out –
and instantly, I crave the shining route.