The butter moon melts a path into the silky streets
to guide along uneasy feet.
With no-one to meet and nowhere to go
I keep my pace unreasonably slow.
With food for thought, my stomach is full
and I'm sick of feeling this constant pull,
too timid to push, I simply resist
in the hope that in absence I may be missed.
I find comfort in the plots of my dreams
where everything is just slightly different than it seems,
and this altered state is what keeps my blistered feet going
on to a future that I am scared of knowing.
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