Last week, I posted part one of a three part poem.
This is part two.
(Being part 2 in Walking)
He has cast iron eyes.
The tears that fall onto the road
are smolders. This water dimples the paving stones.
He cries because he is trapped on the highway.
Made to shuffle between purgatories in a track laid down by
the ones who reached paradise and put up walls.
Lost on the shoulder, he is chipped. Tell him, where
is the heaven on the rise? He might have known were
the years not grass, his hands not cracked, and life not chalk on his tongue.
There is a pond at the left shoulder. No, it is a lake.
He would gaze upon it, but he lacks the company,
and the temple of the one true God is in ruin on the right,
burning like a whicker idol. He does not feel the flame.
Trekking in ruts like canyons, his limbs will fail. And soon,
the only notion of his life will be gone from here. He passes many on
the road. He will not stop, and it will not end. There is nothing behind the
curtain, and his feet will rub away until his legs stop moving.