And they ask, ‘Where are we going?’

Bricks under our soles, and The fluttering of mushed sounds Paddle inside mine ear. A portion resembles a desperate race - Another scoop conveys an andante walk - And a fierce heap of… Stiff and hollow steps— Ring in a shallow manner— Down through the dim alleyway— Methinks, they are all going in some sort of Clear or foggy direction, Where some signs are faded from the sunlight, And some signs are scratched away at by the Huffing—and—puffing of the decades.

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