Downtrodden grass marks the path

Of a man who’s walked too often

To the corner of the street

And back

Afraid to push past his limitations

Unaware that he even can

The shingles are loose, the mailbox

Long emptied of past due subscriptions

Nobody cares that he’s hanging

By the thinnest of threads

A brown recluse by nature

The world strung him up and asked

Be an orb weaver, or we’ll weave you

A single life with unemployment checks

And student loans beyond reconcile

The world asks us to spin webs

Out of their shortsighted shit

And if we fail, we’re deemed less than

Broken

And beyond any sort of humanitarian repair

Source: By Nature – DeveReaux’s Newfound Words

DeveReaux Frazier (US)

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