Trodden puddles; muddy waters of cattles laiden on the path of a dry river bed. The surrounding being ever present of one's land loss. It's love (like many hearts) so bare to the humid air, under these heated moments. Skins have broken out, in my rash decisions.
Don't butter me up, to spread the falseness of a left hand. Though it's right isn't always holding onto doing right.
Shall I tend the fieldβonce after the herd passes? Let no puddle be open on where you walk.