Writer Between Worlds

I walk. 
I think nothing 
of it. 

I walk. 
I hear nothing 
but 

the raspy sound my boots make 
on pebbles 

the wheezing past of dragonflies 
in their autumnal attire 

the leaves – still green, 
crackling dry, 

floating in silence without 
aim. 

people jogging, imagining 
they're going places. 

dust. 

hearts beating,  
heaving, panting, 

the trunks of trees quietly 
thudding. 

onward and inward 
I walk. 

I walk. 
I am all 
feet 

moving of their own 
accord. 

I feel nothing 
but 
life, heat.