The Sidewalk Treader

Gentle was the first lights sun,
the lark, the pheasant and the white dove.
Dancing wind play with the grass
and sweep the earth clean of promises.

I let you leave the bark fallen,
wounds of bloody tree prevail
and yet your essence lives in the emptiness of night.

Eyes like the moon of silver,
sliding down the hills,
linger at my gate, unsettling the lock.

Chains can't hide you, guide you,
keep you locked inside,
but memories, small white mischiefs
lift not a sparrow from your sodden ground.

Cracked and grieving,
breathing sharp air, sharp love.
Nothing gives upon your breath
or dances in your light of dark.

I have seen your heart of tardy
consciousness and let go,
but you hold tight and are pricked by the brambles.
Heaving, letting, behind a silken smile
of lost despairing,
entering times barrow of deepness
and sorrow inside.

Tumbling until tomorrows waking,
yet it's all too late for today.
Blind as,
deaf as,
stumbling through the people.

Crisp was it,
firm and taunt,
crunching under your feet.
Ever so clear to your shielded smart heart.
Softer is the sweetness of letting go,
before you become the sidewalk treader
and the hearts you walk on crumble,
leaving your soul bloody.

Learn more about this author, Bridget Webber.
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