as the earth splits in half this is the escape i have

when was the last time you had a week
was it a summer or a winter.
                it was a january
there was no snow then, just light mist drifting through hair slowly graying.
no traction on shoes, or time for rest. but walking. and coffee by the pint of beer
              that you had
                after you had the coffee
it wasn't just a week though, it was two and a half of weary movement. impetuous as
the days carried along the fading memory of your life left behind
but it's unreasonable to think you left it, certainly
it was left but it held itself like a feather fights gravity in the wind and
over just as soon. with abandon. with the sidewalks covered in filth. and the tread your shoes didn't have as the footsteps carried the future closer and closer.
                                                                                          just a fucking sandwich, come on
a russian beer and a conversation about this and that. destination? it's coming up.                                     the footsteps are clawing towards some kind of conclusion but always the cards fall from the deck
with cautious precision. and rambling.
hills with greenery supported by the decaying memories of death
of traders and their historic progenies.                                   St. Mungo, who the fuck was he?
just dreary days and monumental evenings always with the
sunset that wasn't really supposed to happen
the haze, the mist, a pint of beer and the treadless shoes finding the next
                                            portion of warmth
over the bridge and you wander and wonder, how many people fell off of this christmas lighted bridge,
a very cold death indeed at the bottom. it wouldn't take long, but it would be so unpleasant
            and the rose remains elusive.