The Sound of Falling Rocks

Months piled up on themselves, became a road block. I can still hear the sound of falling rocks. I am concussed by the years. Bought a pair of new sneakers, bought a wristwatch that counts steps, bought a wish and a hope from a thrift store. In-between the turning of the days time flips the script, becomes a shadow on a sundial, gives you a plow to push uphill, the mind falls ill becomes a landslip bars a way. The morning is upside and sunny, Lilliputian restraints pop and loosen ligaments. I am on the road again but taking it slow no-place is a better place to go. Ears pricked, waiting, suspecting, ever recalling the distant sound of falling rocks.