Struck

I can see it on your feet,
stuck in-between your toes,
you’ve been trudging through
the sludge of over-abundance,
an imagination gone haywire
by the virus of reality.

People like to think this is
where roots rest certain
and demons lock claws,
but all life feeds from
the same source.

You’re too clever for this,
slipping teeth into pockets,
sharing a bed with agony,
just waiting for that match
to come strike you off
those worn down feet.

I bet if they cut you,
you’d bleed oil.

– B.

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