By: C-J
How can a street have a name
But not
I?
Words, die, bleed out with ink of
poems harmonize to the sound of roads
Winding down until it blows
Me away,
Shoestring sandals backpack more with
a broken compass and illiterate map
Beacons hold a jaded hand that
snares the skeleton key, opening every door
Locked,
locked,
locked,
locked,
locked,
locked,
locked
You don’t have to (have) go (a) home, but you can’t stay here
Or here, or there, or there, or here
Where
am the static space, deadlocked
into place, it fleets and scurries
The lantern swinging, is kissed coldnight
as the mill of time stirs
Blurred fog on the cobblestone
Path