Distance

Still palms and knees

Marching on a white cotton carpet,

Stained from steel toe boots,

Twigs and roots tangled in the curls of the floor,

Inching forward,

for a hand, a hug, something to teeth on,

Or a way to speak,

It does not cross our minds,

At such a time,

We do not imagine an end,

Bedsores and achy bones,

A withering ego,

Our heads, too soft to know,

That most hero’s don’t float,

Some live underground,

nurturing the cities soil,

Growing the town’s people,

We are too young to be alone, Too young to be mislead by our phones.

Crawling in isolation,

Mandatory masked conversations,

horrid news and separation,

Forced distractions,

and quick personal interactions,

We are too young too flee,

Far too young to lose it all,

Too young to stop breathing,

He was.