Four Lines

Head down in the weeds we are dropped
left to grope blindly through the roots
with no maps or clearly marked routes
drooping feet seeking til they’re stopped.

Seeking until they’re stopped, our feet
grip the thin cold air with curled toes
and try to dodge the poorest rows
to keep their bare soles smelling sweet.

We keep our souls smelling too sweet
counting Sundays we sit in church
keen to look involved in the search
for something to keep us complete.

To find something to complete us
desperate soles wander the streets
stripping every soul they meet
stark naked to find an address.

An address that leaves a sole stark
naked provides us no haven
nor a thing resembling heaven
just a place to hide from the dark.

Hiding from the dark these places
sell shoes to slip over bare soles
and walk with no care on hot coals
but lose our balance and graces.

Lynne