One Good Foot

Useless, this conversation, shrouded in mimed opinion.

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Impaled words imposed by a right foot wishing to get ahead of itself.

Impoverished by motion held in fields of yonder and lore.

I could take each step with,

post scripts,

‘Do not go.’

Pray, to acquaintances,

‘You have not seen.  What I have come to know.’

And, still,

6 months 4

I get ahead of myself.

Stumbling into shafts of dimly lit mistakes.

Deprecatingly,

rolling about in wooded carnage.

Illogically, pressing the accelerator.

Not the brakes.