The last storm
cleared a path
with all the force
of a dying gasp.

Death rattle,
a clearing throat,
the way is hard…

uncleared – the road.

Unclear? I know that
if I trip and fall,
to land palms-down,
the gravel road
will cut and scrape,
while beads of blood
will swell and crown.

The flow, as slow as
that storm’s blow,
will fail to cleanse the stones
from the cuts, scrapes,

and bleeding holes.

But, I am the storm,
and onward I go,
to lightly rustle
the bloody stones
on my road.

©️ Obol, 2020.

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