35

Help me find that twisting path to glory, behind the station sign,
amongst the crumpled cans and bags, covered up by vines.
The needles add relief, and point me on my way, into the wooded backyard, forgotten, ignored by most they say.

Choking on the air so thick with particles of hate, my tongue is slathered, overrun, against my teeth it grates.
I'm pulled to side, behind as well, and bumped ahead of course, upward stream to downward racing keeps the senses stressed.
But through the leaves that feather me, I see a shadowed clearing, lines of silk poured out to slow my journey towards the gap ahead.
I fall, knees sliding to a stop, outside the wood, though trailing sticks, and gather up my air.

Staring upwards to the woman, left behind up there. She's still asleep, her susurrations, glint the barest bit,
alabaster dusting over lips and fingertips, atramentous touched with blue, her locks they open worlds, except the one on which I kneel, 
separated from my girl.