I know the highs are lower,
it’s digging into my shoulder;
weight against skin.
It’s nothing to the eye-less frightened.

Grating in a rusted sound,
pierced through to stitch fractures;
rhythm against rhythm.
Flowing water moving sin.

When am I atoned from the things I had to walk into;
the angled stares; the whipping air…
When is it all over?