Indentions

I saw a blind man look into his palms

Counting down the timeline in his hands

Rummaging the indentions 

Blurred in contention

While marching with a phrase:

"Tongue-tied."

These insufferable doubts ride wind.

Blinking blips of Morse code

Speaking to me in braille

So I can feel them.

The Ghost of Walt Whitman speaks.

It's leaves of grass trace along the path.

The essence of living.

Cracked skin,

Choking on disenchantment.

Knitting vowels of rope,

Swaying with regression

Regurgitating repetitious faces

From a sky-high flat

Observing downwind

The bullshit that screeches to a halt.

Chalking outlines for parking lots

In the middle of the road

Paving the way for pedestrian resting places

Admitting death as a resource 

Separating the noumenon from calamity

Bidding adieu-- 

At the prospect of living in another time.