Poems and Prose #40 - Linear

Dire straits,
   these,
filled with
   rustic creeds,
toppling through
   the valley
   clenching wads
   of soggy things.

The midpoint passed,
   we recede,
claiming stellar
   deeds,
our eyes fixed
   to the floor
   as our blushing faces,
   inside, bleed.

The final gate
   breathes,
jostled gently
   by the breeze,
sheened with grit,
   gunk, and goop
   that the solo
   travelers bring.

Bare moments
   seized,
I adust
   my speed,
the objects
   whizzing by,
   turned to specks
   that barely sting.