Footprints...

Trying to make every smoke ring perfect. Not to trip over an impaired sidewalk. Bowels of maggots fest at your feet. Your toes curl in the sand. Destiny is but a symptom. The long hot winter awaits. You trip. Listening to The Band. Mother's womb is iced over. Your lungs burn with envy. Chopping the spinach with your teeth. The sink drips loud with fear. Cocking your head back with confidence. Hanging yourself with the Christmas wreath. Death awaits the moving. Cracks fill every hole. Time is but a symptom. Your toes curl in the sand.