Strangers are the archives of mysteries.

Sidewalk lies brand them

deep; attacked by silent

words and hard faces.

They are without council.

Stepping from the shadows

their walk

is light and careful

when in unwanted parts.

They had dreams;

stripped away after wounds,

fading in horizons of travels.

They have no apology,

though some regrets.

They are masters of street-time

and voices through backdoor





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