For My Stuttered Bones

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.

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