I do not want your cloths of gold,
They land heavy upon my collar.
Blocking the sun as they fall,
Tainting heaven’s view.
You call it love,
Floundering in the unrequited fog.
I see an age old appetite,
A carnal hunger to possess.
Your dreams cause my feet to blister.
I puncture and release the juice.
It seeps away giving respite
Only to swell and wound again.
Why must I always walk
On some man’s cloth or dream?
I long to feel the earth,
Sink each foot into the dense soil.
I have walked as softly as I can
But they are always underfoot.
I have dreams of my own you know.