Writing

My father’s used sneakers,
torn at the sides like a grimace

I tripped over the roots;
Veins, snarled knotted
The dark encompassing the evergreen pillars.

When the mud was hard,
crumbling like stale bread and the ground slick.

I slide backwards at each incline.
I rest in the stream bordering the trail of breadcrumbs,
Separate the scalp,
greasy pink slivers to trace into the cavernous crevasses

But the matches have been in my back pocket this whole time
hypothermia in 60 degrees won’t be the death of me.
my skin blue and cold to the touch, and the heart palpitates.
Once the beat traversed up cliff sides, vaulting over fallen trees,
but now it fades, murmuring, the rain on my face, the sap from the trees.

I find sustenance.
I don’t know if I’ll be here tomorrow,
but if the peak would be in sight,
I’d make it.

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