Muddy is the ocean of unnamed Numbers And so to must muddy be my boots stomping and clonking, nudging and trudging along A glassy, hazy malaise An unmistakable drowning haze Still is the sway of the cracking trusses Winged silhouettes penetrate the thick hemisphere Am I living life? Crossing the Misty Bridge So much ground to cover So much world to sunder Legions call out from the city Danging Postage adorns its rusty fences Warning Journeymen they've already come too far Perhaps I could've clung on harder Other charlatans accompany this Their faces sullen and numb Sticks scraping splintered nails Hard to keep dreaming when the rivers fog Obscures picturesque visions of the harbor beyond Lurk wearily leery of the weak and lost that will feed and prey on your stride The timbers splinter and swept away are those unfulfilled in the current Crunching to canes and crutches and whining under wheels, weak are those abandoned trusses Crying out are the forgotten masses cringing fraying ropes sidling towards exodus Perhaps the fog will never clear, I'll continue to shed a tear and I simply have no place here. Off I dream to go, into the rivers flow, no one would know, quiet and violent and thrashing and smashing my head against rocks just because I couldn't afford to move another board But the tear condenses freezing me to my senses back to reality and what's in front of me. Just as the river claimed its place on the face of this uncaring marble, to must I pry and gnaw and hammer and nail and see and saw for the people without the gumption or stripped of their function, trapped at this junction forced to languish crying out in anguish to cross this chasm and break free of the liminality ... Whispy and wicked are their cries in the dew Through the beams they sublimate Piercing in my nose and screaming in my ears Scrambling my brain but calming my fears Another muddy mile passed, so many remain One foot proceeding the other I have no time for the calls I've left behind