My footsteps are those

my footsteps are those of death —

a heart too heavy for this world,

slow march along the pavement, unable

to breach the dying song that pulls me down

knowing it’s all temporary,

temporarily mourning my misfortune

hurling my heart’s cries to the sky in silence.

my footsteps are those of death,

and I weigh them on the roads

until the pavement cracks,

until my feet won’t lift from the rocks,

until the dirt covers me whole

and the silence matches

my pain — the world of the living

takes no pleasure in me;

I am a wounded man, wandering

in a foreign land, where I’m looked down upon

and so I sink further still.

my footsteps are those of death,

and I am a wounded man.

there is no end to the blood that pours out:

from my sighs, the ground has taken a liking

to my lies, as I tell myself keep going,

it will be alright — where

are the healer’s hands?
the place I can go to mend;

where is the cauterizing heat?

i need a molten rod to sear this flesh,

an iron tong to reach in and thresh

the darkness that lingers within:

a light to bring me home again,

and ease my weary breath.

my footsteps are those of death,

and a heavy weight envelops me.

a monsoon from the east has swallowed me

no more sunshine above my head —

I march to the sound of its beat, a

misstep will end me, must be careful now,

no room for a heart of stone now

no room for a heart to grow now

must escape the cold somehow

and tear from my steps that stench of death.