Dirt

Dirt

Tasteless,

as peeking around corners,

gripping at the straws

in a strangers

scotch and water.

 

Being thoroughly dissolved

in the wrong skin,

the wrong body,

the wrong frame of mind,

absolutely.

 

And yet

there is no forgoing

the transition,

whatever that may be.

 

In or out

of the cemetery.

 

It’s the struggle

that bites,

the cold breath

of winter.

 

Or the burning words

spoken by children

pulled quickly

down a road,

hand in hand

of a concerned father.

 

And finding comfort

in that desperation,

is almost as pathetic.

 

Endlessly hoping,

for a quick

return to dirt.

 

Or a rebirth

in water or sky.