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The Traveler

Your hands, more clubs, blunted, held out as to reach close only for need of nourishment; Your eyes, open, all of you within them, wanting only a moment’s passing ‘to the next; Your nose, visible, covered slightly with an aura, held for need of where to be; Your lines, arms, thick-pelted with the food, the warmth, you’ve not forgotten was given in sacrifice; Your hood, closed on skin of neck, of ears, lying to keep down the hair you’ve grown; You swallow. Another night’s distance and these legs, friends in rain, may hold but as scene long-sought in memory. You take in breath, holding not but a second ‘fore you lose that stench of flesh, half yours, half theirs, your wamrth of limbs. You widen lips, yet, closed, keep them, wanting scrunch of cheeks in vision, welcoming to the eye’, lonely in their passings of the nose. A branch, low, hangs for you to lower yourself, accepting & rejoicing, silently, with appreciation, the scraping of its naked hands upon your scalp, your thin-coated view, unseen by eyes. You lower hood to shoulders, hoping, soon, another may grant such comfort of company; the only friend a walker has being the shake of hand, of leaves by head, knees, limbs-up, or breaths hard-breathed; so welcoming, the sound the slide of seed upon the mind, much less the covering.

Sky.

You wake, slightly prior to your stumbling ’bout, with water needed by your sleep-dried mind, and your hands, beside your thighs, hang as do weakened vines from branches, trunk’, along the trees.

sunny morning into night
and they take all i can give you now,

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