Always, two paths carve themselves ahead

and then some more, roaring

to infinity a smash of slanderous tongues

that beckon with clamorous shrieks;

They know my feet are cold. I look down

and can only see blue china toes

peeking above the dust at blue overhead. They smile brightly in their

ignorance and take me where they please.

 

The criss-crossed paths do not seem to know

their end. I am but a pawn

holding the hands of bishops, praying

to deaf king’s eyes. But bishops,

They go far; and kings,

They are important. They know where they are going

and warm these once-cold hands—

 

but now they are too hot. Sweaty hands,

they let go, push the bishops along

and find the cool hands of knights. They are less sure

of where they are going. Now I shiver,

but it is better than being warm.

 

But soon these hands will get hot again, and blue china toes

can only stumble forward, even if

my eyes turn back and I become but a pillar

of tears.