dried soil splits without resistance -
and the life woven under that binds it.
Behind you I pick a careful path,
and match your confident strides.
I hold my head high, and lock my muscles.
You stare ahead into the undergrowth,
some internal instinct tells you
where your steps will best be placed.
The chaos of the natural world
is crippled by your determination.
You never wavier, or observe your impact
too closely -
a clinical eye occasionally grazes the brush
but the head never turns.
Occasionally a step drops, my rhythm fails,
a shattered edge of the forest surrounding,
invades the cleave of your path - and rips into me.
Quicker than the eyes can see, my skin ruptures.
The pain echoes, shuddering through my bones -
I flinch, but the strength of my pace does not falter.
You look over your shoulder and deny
the blood dripping from my limbs -
I cannot have failed the task at hand.
My abilities are perfected and my excution precise-
It is the dissonance of nature itself
that is the reason. Not my lack of sight,
not the simplicity of my humanity.
Having thrown miles behind us,
you commend my commitment to the course
and congratulate yourself for your selection
of my talent to be such a fine mirror.
Deep down, you recognise your grip on me;
that crushes my navigation of my own path,
deviating me from my own sense of self.
Deep down, you know you don't care to think of it,
and instead toss affectionate affirmation
to ease my weak body from blood loss.
I accept, with clinical eye,
and stare into the dark of the undergrowth.
An itch surives inside me,
but I know not what it means any more.