The Dying Body Chronicles 20: The history of roads

     You see, these roads carry 
          my journey in their 
            scarred tarmac. 
         
         It is afternoon where 
          my journey begins. 
          
      My feet eats the dust 
          & cigarette smoke 
          of other long 
          distanced afternoons.  
         
          I can almost taste 
          the sluggish season, 
 the pent up energy of bodies 
struggling to finish the day. 

        These roads call 
   to their bones, the deep 
 marrows of the days before 
    tarmac defiled swamp, 
    ate the old sacred paths 
   of the jungle once fed 
      oracles. 

     So when I wandered, 
 high on palm wine & nuts, 
     shouldering burdens 
    like bleached bones 
  in the sharp claws 
 of the desert, it was 
not just me who walked 
  those lone days. 
            
      There was the me 
    first fetched the swamp, 
    the other that first tapped 
    the trees & this weak 
    apparition trundling 
    these new paths. 

    The many me converge 
 as my oldest journey begin 
 again, as I wander 
   all the hells 
 & all the heavens 
  home can be. 

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