Strands Of Time
There isn't a way to walk roads
unfettered, roads are always bound by people, stampedes, riots
their history is unseen, only stones and pebbles are witness
to their history of sordidness, there are times in night's sway they rest or sleep
but even then, dogs lynch them, their insides.
Roads have a sad past. People beat them to beat their drums and war cries.
Cars gallivant with them. Hysterical men drag their feet, poor creatures of day
and night
winter or summer
rains wash their feet away
tars melt them in the heat
the labourer however treads cautiously on them.
My summer song
My winter lament
you lacerate all strands of time.
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