My feet tread the stones and my bones write the words which in other  words hurt and the hurt that I feel can't begin to conceal what I try to reveal but I can't.
There's a layby I walk by, but people don't lay there, don't stay there so what is it there for?  
is it there to confuse me with more words written freely?
In the precinct, so succinct, standing tall like an old Sphynx is a monument to testosterone, they call it the old folks home but there's no home for me there, I'm out in the town square, an old square in my own hole with a large hole in my right shoe and a bigger hole in my stomach, getting through it is easy, practice makes perfect and I've had plenty of that.
The stones become spongelike, the longer I write the softer they get, the softer they get the more that I write, it's a rite for me, a day and a night in the life of me where eternity is got to by catching the 3.43 from Euston to Peterlee.
If I sleep, I sleep lightly, frightened the monsters who fight me might win.
I see an end in the end or it may be a layby I pass by, shaking my head I go on wondering why.