It was cold
I picked
up an old

road
which I wrapped
around
my shoulders

sometimes
the wind
whispers
small towns
or parched

fields
leaking
into the horizon

it was late
I climbed over
the gate

and fell
off the edge
of the world
I am still
falling,

open
shirt
and free

a pauper
or king
or revolutionary
it all began
when I cut
the cord

took
my pencil,
paddled
without reason

other than
the cold
that preyed
so I picked up
an old road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_______________

Photo : SARITA ~ https://www.instagram.com/sarimundo/