There are souls
on the paths of wanderers.
Without possession or guile,
at one with the elements,
they slide from one to the other,
Becoming this and then that.
Invisible in this wilderness of eyes,
they watch in disbelief
as they stumble unseeing
amidst the refuge.
How long they have denied themselves
the love they sought.
How far they have come to escape it.
Broken, they lie along the path
shorn of all volition.
I wonder how long they must wait
before they can heal
and rise up again
from those trash filled urns
to search the roads of their desire
for the doors of their emergence
once more in every grain of sand.
Now the bus is full again
and I shall not be deceived.
sitting there across the aisle,
I see you rub your weary feet
before you deviate and depart
when the next stop arrives.
How else can we be released
from this circuitous route we ride?
El Aguacate, Jal, Mx