Poetry ••• Aimless. I guess that's what I am. There's no place I'd like to arrive at. So that makes me aimless. My feet start to ache. I don't want to walk anymore. I'm so very tired you see. I'm urged to keep on moving. Even if it's painful. I want to stop and ponder. Maybe think of where I'll end. What will happen if my feet grow roots. They usher me forward. Hands pushing against my back. I don't want to walk anymore. Upon this dusty path. My feet are dirty and tired you see. Good sir, please allow me rest. I'm urged to keep on moving. Regardless of my health. Since they push me to walk forward. I guess that I'll walk sideways. Aimlessly in the dust. I guess that's what I am. Aimless.
Rows and rows of skeletons on ropes
Singing their broken, grating tunes
Their music raspy screams
Of previous torments seared to their souls
Left to forever sing their melody of misfortune
Hanging on their dusty ropes;
The ghost of the gallows
