#1329-Marks

Cold, imprinted treads.

Laying still.

Hanging on, for tomorrow.

Maybe I won’t melt.

False hope.

Something inside’s

Afraid of tomorrow.

Not knowing,

That melting’ll feel good.

Leaves no marks.

Cleanses.

Too much time and thinking,

Creates fear.

Roll up the sleeves,

Sow the ground,

Sweat until dusk.

Then sleep happily.

Tomorrow’s not far off.

And those we brought along,

Are waiting, for more.