Inanimate objects have a place
right along side my smiling face.
They remind any kind of pace
leaves trails that can be traced.
Made deep are the treads there
in muck where motion dares
go so quick making us unaware
that the living need some care.
I’ve attempted to cipher logic
I failed at that see my pockets.
My hands are there I stopped it;
my head down I am no prophet.
All I know is experience’s taste;
all else a mysteriously lit place.
Again look at my smiling face
that my tears have tried to erase.