A Strange View of Thorofare

"...and the sun has resuscitated to its previous might, 
early in the year with scorching heat, 
specially for those stuck with faith: 
wearing sleeves, somewhere in the southern isles, 
where today it has rained."

A thought flourished sometime in the week past—
knocking on the door—coming to mind,
with a steely gaze it scoured inside.
The door didn't stand a chance;
much of the blame went to settled, 
resident thoughts, that littered around town, 
to wherever led the path.

“What was a fair exchange?”
A diplomatic affair,
where there is no malice, no debt,
no words that’re left unsaid—
no words are instigated by fear or shame,
or a mishandled trade—
put to naught by the act of fraud, treason, or assault. 

Standing before the mirror,
it landed a gaze on every strand of hair, 
defiant with the air.
On every ridge on the skin, 
on scars that were impaled,
and those that withered away.
In complete silence, a pulse was heard
in the ear, and felt: here the skin stretched thin—
blood gushed through its veins.

People here never see a moment’s worth of rest, 
from seasons that continuously tread:
scorching heat, a hint of rain, 
clouds for weeks, 
until winter falls, and the wilderness freezes to death.
It is in every summer that I see
people’s skin withering evermore:
a subtle pull of the earth, 
people guarding open doors—
never caring to set aside a moment for thought,
sitting beneath a shelter for once, 
and making illusions out of airborne dust
that doesn’t get to escape the sentence of the sun.
“Return with ease, enter the home, 
learn to stay inside in the summers;
shut the doors.”

What a dream it is, to live offshore…
Some part of the world
where two seasonal evils are traded for one.
Perhaps there is a trail nearby—
“We should go together sometime…”.
Perhaps I can finally find some work,
and experience some sense of that old, 
succinct entitlement and purpose,
that sitting on a desk, 
some forty hours a week gives.
Perhaps I would see attack before it lands, 
and walk unharmed, still in control.
Then I could escape the weight of ailments and scars, 
and blend in with the crowd in the summers—
wear half sleeves, instead of long coats.
Perhaps I’ll then try to defy time, 
and keep myself in a gathering until dusk, 
instead of taking to the pen in dire hours.

“What was the escape from,
after bearing a sentence of the sun,
burnt, running towards the sound of the shore—
seeing every flower in the way 
wither with bitterness and envy;
running, for days without shelter, or sleep, 
with hunger, no tears left to weep,
running after having seen death and rot, 
running, from that wretched isle
where the lesser ones are born?”
I escaped for a reward,
of forgetting my age, and my name.
Even if I had to steal, 
and despite all misfortune that would succeed.