travel/

digging the dirt
for yesteryears & might-have-beens
red, the blood soiled wyrd
this torn earth path i tread
scraping at the dust
memories not me not mine
all mine like jack dancing at the
end of the line

the dark grey men waiting
to snatch
as i amble, shamble 
this track
both hands tied back blindly
searching for trails
back to the you
i knew
from before
you
were
you

© Michael Raven

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