You see, these roads carry
my journey in their
scarred tarmac.
It is afternoon where
my journey begins.
My feet eats the dust
& cigarette smoke
of other long
distanced afternoons.
I can almost taste
the sluggish season,
the pent up energy of bodies
struggling to finish the day.
These roads call
to their bones, the deep
marrows of the days before
tarmac defiled swamp,
ate the old sacred paths
of the jungle once fed
oracles.
So when I wandered,
high on palm wine & nuts,
shouldering burdens
like bleached bones
in the sharp claws
of the desert, it was
not just me who walked
those lone days.
There was the me
first fetched the swamp,
the other that first tapped
the trees & this weak
apparition trundling
these new paths.
The many me converge
as my oldest journey begin
again, as I wander
all the hells
& all the heavens
home can be.
