Backpacking

What day is it now? How long has it been? I miss my lover and my friend And while I know that it’s not quite really a sin I’ve now fallen in love With a very light wind Someone to speak with This breeze she is mine We’ll speak with each other And we’ll speak in rhyme While my body’s become A negative space Where flesh used to be And what once had a face...

His auto-biography written on a storm that seemed like it would never end.   So he learned to accept the shivering soaking that followed whenever he stepped out of the shelter he’d built in his old broken heart.   Its walls are made of driftwood. Branches and limbs from long dead trees relinquished from the higher hills a long time ago.   Discarded ideas of the future that this storm ripped from their roots and...

We lived like kings upon the earth Our castles made from the remains Of giants slain On the higher mountains   The weary travelers wander by on the path They carry almost nothing These ascetic wanderers With fancy European gear And so little of it at that You have to wonder Why do they deprive themselves so? What sins are they trying to atone for?   We arrived here ages ago Or maybe just days...