If a freedom rang through the fog.
What a delight it would be…
for my stuttered bones.
My body, seemingly, a fractured lawn ornament.
In search of a new home.
I turn, and face my hobble toward this mystic, mythic road.
appendages nothing more than a mere icicle for the cold.
Infantile, I still believe in dim passages and slippery slopes of hope.
After all, I am a pious, peppered, passenger who wants salvation’s hold.