wallow

it's been so long since

hitting the streets with poets

my tongue is dry

stumbling on hollered words

looking for answers in tea leaves

at the bottoms of many a drained cup

i never learned this art

but then have i learned any?

i look to the troubadours and find

paths wiped clean by age and dust

(daring us to forge our own

or warning of futility?)

thoughts flit through the wind as ever

don't let me fall too behind