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A haze of static,
damaged footmarks.

I fall through,
an ensconced,
upward trudge.

Beneath a trampled,
loving heart.

Human Times, all, tired,
from trying,
and taking much …

… steps.

To pull my
pulmonary
art’ried
veins apart.

Yet, I have the heart, to walk, free, and back up,
ahead,
and, alone, I’ll walk if I must.

Above, Human Time’s attempts, to leave rattled,
and misled,
my naive, undaunted trust.

A haze of damaged,
static footmarks.

Stand to shape wings,
of the feet, I,
used to stamp.

And, nail strings,
to streets, all,
couped with lamps.

Human Times, try to —

make a markered,
marring of my columbary home.

That epitomises me, a martyr;
a housemartin’s misanthrope.

And, yet, still, I soar above the smoke.

© poormansdreams

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