Stumble drunk, a fool’s path ahead, a fool’s path behind, reality roots grabbing at fumble feet in the steady rains. Falling phantom, fading frail for the light of new dawns rising — what jokes so many I have become, they jest.
Unable to disagree, I laugh with crows as I grow closer to water ways.
You see: even pain can amuse with eyes set scattered and unfocused. So, seek fog and sojourn; give to cataract eyes.
I seek to hitch a ride with sticks riding rain rivulets from forest floor to river as they carry me carry me home.
Crickets fiddle dirges for nightfall.
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