when pale skies are too wide and low     and i feel less covered than a stone     when there seems

nowhere to mend     and there is nowhere else to breathe     when no roof rests up overhead    

and my steel is unsheathed like the open road     when my neck lies in wait for a salty sun     and

my blink is too slow to avoid the jab     when i smash my toe until my blood runs dry     and

slipping makes my ankle crack     when my fingertips are scraped to pulp     and my nails are torn

from shards of rock     and my lips are slit by the blade of a scythe     when my throat is raw from

sucking thorns        then        you resurface painstakingly -     hold out your honeyed hand     and

the dolor i freight

                                           becomes a

                                                                          sheer

                                                                                               dry

                                                                                                                 shroud

seasofme130313moot

there is always someone at the end of the tunnel. waiting. or is there?