When the dead bring themselves to walk with you,
and your glance is a pendulum, it’s hard
to move forward without a sailor’s gait.
You know there’s an ocean beneath your feet
that the swell could drown out words, breath, but you
want that company to dance again, reach
to catch up with your heart as it leaps at
the thought of them walking in the world – new
fresh, unbloodied from the bloody exit
wet or dry…the impossible hope that
something important had slipped down the back
of Desperate, and it was all a mistake.
These dreams aren’t made for walking or waking; they are the unwritten, the other roads.