I have to walk the talk, but when I get there my lips remain shut.
Who am I to shatter the ambivalent nature of my rut.
In densely packed woods I can let out a quiet sigh, just maybe this once I have outrun the spies.
The mud here is perfect for a shallow grave, if they come, but just watching the flailing of my mind is good enough for some.
I put my head against the tree, old oak, older than me. This how I know you don’t need eyes to see.
And in the distance the bark of a dog … I have to walk the talk … Just to lose myself and drive myself out of town with a pitch fork.
D November 2018