Alternations needed

There is a place that smells like dust;

an aroma heavier than gold and stone.

Particles saturated with the heavy legs

of memory.  Legs that sludge trough

a damning life of talent and potential.

A life that once ran through grass

with smiling eyes, and feathered promises.

The neighbor kids falling off bikes, and

these legs peddle straight out of

our neighborhood, and right into

the life of working.

23 years of the same work now. 

 

I am afraid.

Are responsibilities the metric for treason?

 

This smell of dust and what is comfortable

is filling my lungs, and while starving for

air is something I’ve learned to do so well;

this time I’m running out.  You see the dust

is settling, and spinning in my circumference

all I have -- is more of the same, and the same

is filling me with what I already have.  Someone

once asked a question about old dogs and tricks.

Maybe those dogs don't really learn, maybe they

just refuse to take the only road they know.

It not the dying part that scares me,

It’s the expectation to have patience for it.

.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

yes, we are so light on our feet as kids...no worries, no responsibilities...and all that changes as we age.
We become mired in the deep mud of life that pulls us in and keeps us running in place...all those crazy dreams of youth stick to the bottom of our feet, but the feet can't move.
j.

[Einstein Noodle]

lots of great lines says i! like:
"Particles saturated with the heavy legs" and "Are responsibilities the metric for treason?"
very emotive ..i feel the gasping with dust in my lungs ... the treadmill life ...sucking life and offering no escaping ...a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do! :( sheesh Cory! bad times at Ridgemont High eh!? i also kinda read the poet in there ... we do course through the same old "stuff" ..seeking a better way to paint it ... a dark, bleak poem ... it scrapes me bones like fingernails on a chalk board.
E.