Apr 3, 2025
The road redraws itself with a spoon,
mud scribbled in cursive no one teaches.
Each hesitation leaves a small shoe in the soil.
Once, I walked like a man
who thought mirrors owed him money.
The wind carried legal documents
signed by birds.
Now I play dead beneath a pile of unpaid bills,
chewing a shadow that forgot its password.
Time and doubt sip from a tarnished thimble,
spilling it ceremonially on expired leaves.
My heart is an attic where furniture whispers,
where dust rehearses its one-man show.
Something long-lost
still perfumes the air
like a misplaced violin.