Stuck playing chess by myself.
Twelve steps forward.
Four to the side.
Drying on the side of the road. Red dusty sky. Powder. Blue.
The kind that rests dry on your lips. Paints you a whole new hue.
Rolling the build up into little coils on my palms and brushing them off.
Dust to dust. Canvas to soil. Downtrod to marxist idealism.
The opportunity to fail.
The grand wide open free of uncertain.
Sun crisp pages rattling in the gentle breeze.
The jagged itch of four days no razor.
Work it out with dirty nails
and wild tendrils of never before styled hair.
This is where all stability goes to die.
Where every manly man walks over the edge of the world into the blank savannah.
This is where I take my first step.