The Weeds We Wear

So much skin, old

Shedding shedding a shroud

Like a snake would abandon the clothing that warmed identified and covered him.

Like I would walk away from a friend and another friend that I thought would cover me

From storms

From fears

From the plague of idle boredom between college and married.

And it may be the loss of a simple coat that may be replaced.

Or it could be walking away from a snail shell home

That covered me.

And new skin must grow.

Brittle.

Frail.

And I hear the crunch as I walk away from bits of me, or you, or the past,

Or a simple returning of dust to earth.

The walk forward leaves things behind

Ever forward.

Ever treading on bits of the old

Thoughts, memories, and joys that I fear will not repeat.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *