The left hand with scars,
Similarly, the sun that sets
On an august afternoon.

Turns the buildings orange.
On these days the bags I carry are light,
Maybe something is stuck.

Going home along a path,
You’ve chosen once to go with me.
It catches upon my throat.  
Like the sunset they hide.

Maybe it’s fear of the weak,
But I’ve come to the conclusion that being weak
Makes the greatest leaders.
In a sense they know how it feels
To have the world look down on them.
So walking down that path of shame and light
Is it another day, to crumble?