I'd hoped to have left a trail of crumbs to map my imminent return but
either the birds have had their fill
or my wretched hands have forgotten.
And though the steps I take are full,
it seems as though I have not allowed the whole of my foot
to kiss the ground;
I will not succumb to that place.
I will not belong to that place.
The trees would weep to remember my face.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
I'd hoped to have left a trail of crumbs to map my imminent return but
either the birds have had their fill
or my wretched hands have forgotten.
And though the steps I take are full,
it seems as though I have not allowed the whole of my foot
to kiss the ground;
I will not succumb to that place.
I will not belong to that place.
The trees would weep to remember my face.
