To Be Found Is To Be Lost
On this journey,
I am lost.
The roads are narrow; The hallways thin.
As one foot plants itself ahead the other, the brown walls go on to fade.
From the very dark moon of the iris
To the echoing emptiness of the chest.
I feel the warmth.
It flows…
And there
I found purpose;
`Why was I born?
Who lifted me from the unconscious?
Who released me into this maze? `
.
.
.
Nothing.
Yet,
As the Brown whispers an absent echo in the ears
And the biting cold crackles -
The soles scream;
`Pitter. Patter`
In hopes of planting purpose for a spring.
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