on this under-trodden grain
I trample through my sleeping mind —
ah, vexing mind,
of the kind, that keeps my eyes
agape at night.
on this pressed and pondered trail
I step across worms of doubt,
worms that sprout
between my toes and keep my feet
confused and cold.
but walking is its own therapy,
and the path
© 2016 Stellular Scribe