Plummeting to a gravel road.
Cascading city on wheels.
Eighteen wheeled miscreants.
Playing heavy metal solos to the articulation of my heart.
An infinitely booming question begs…
ON what is this sense of impending doom…fed?
Arguments with tension’s gods?
Or, shall I remain ‘fetal with anxieties odds?’
Punch drunk breaks of acceptance and it’s dawn…
Amass along my daily way.
Leaving me fetal at vanities reflection.
A righteous temptress would slay such a transgression.
Yet, I am but one woman.
Grasping at restless overgrown weeds with my shaky hands.
However, infantile. I am.
A victim to panic’s potion.
Often found at wit’s end.
Frequently unaware of which commotion that will set the wheels of fear…
An anchor tied to me…made of nylon and other inorganic matter.
Material that does not budge.
For all the wrong reasons…it is an impediment…closer than blood.
Weening myself… I trudge over glorious granite…dismembered wooden limbs.
Into the belly of nature.
Forcing a battle of all my will and woes.
Assuming without my hindrance…I cannot go…
Where others go!
Deep in the stomach of lost rivers…I find I am the only fool…I know.
Traveling minus a crutch…
Bracing for pain.
Rising to the challenge…Strong against my device…
As bold as, my boldest foe.
Ever and again, the weather proofing erodes from my armor.
And, I am left with only rust.
A state of vulnerability…nonetheless.
No matter how I clear the track of every obstacle and fuss.
False idols accompanied by menacing medicine men…
Offer up a pack of true lies.
Though, I have never been a saint by anyone’s surmise.
Even my chipped shoulder tenders in their disguise.
The tarnished native naivety around my aches?
Only a means for the scar tissue to keep me upright.
Healing foe are forever in their mechanical forest.
Await, await, await.
Awaiting my guarded departure.
Hazards of needles, placated steriods and placebos…smoke screens for?
I know not what.
Ever and again, I step into the thicket, enduring the cure.
Tossing a heavy crutch down a bloated well.
Scars bury beneath a tussled earth.
Gathering impediments, brown and tan begin to swell.
Thus, commences lessons that only the unable can tell.
Vacant voices ringing in the ears.
The faces falling.
The lackluster fears.
An aching ever present but not often, accounted for.
Tethering a need for explanation…if ever such a way.
I would leash it around my weathered hand.
If ache be a journey…
What to give for a trip that never turns out as planned?
It is a treacherous turn.
Danger…at every curve.
Something that only I am made of aware of.
But then again, only I need know.
That is just how reality goes.
Benign impediments on the bottom of a shoe.
Just bothersome enough to make the whole day un-glue.