SANDS by Jeremiah Christopher

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pain nibbles at my toes
when i walk a mile.
the roadside caresses my feet
with Earth powder, and clay welcomes
my cracked soles.
stone whispers; “they say that
this is the way to
treat the one you admire:
Kiss him with dust, and
take offense when he
shakes it off.”

sands make dessert sounds,
like children playing a game.
a handful at hand is worth a handful
between your teeth. the tongue sees what
mother used to grate on you;
the dust tastes like skin.
comes unravelled, like kin,
unsaddled with the burden
of breathing. they listen silently
to your footfalls, trying to guage
how far you’ve gone.

time teaches me how
to spread my arms wide-open
and embrace pain
like a friend would another friend;
to burst a wry smile at its
footsteps, to ever be tempered
by its calloused palms,
to grow without roots,
to walk without boots,
to find my peace
in the caresses
of the rushing wind.

pain nibbles at my toes when i walk
a mile
i smile, for pain is teaching me
how to grow thick skin
from the fertile fields
of my hurts. it teaches me
how to shape its worst hits, wrap
it around my hurting feet,
and turn my fears
into shoes, plow through
this garbage that
hides the bits and
pieces of me
i abandoned to the past.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Jeremiah Christopher, known by most as Priest, is a writer and spoken word artist. He enjoys eating and drooling over works of art, in no particular order.

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