Backpacker

I remain clueless, 
traversing across foreign soil
peering over my shoulder

Yet it is not the unknown, 
which taxes me and pulls at
my dress. 

No——-

It is the fear of failure: 

leaves purple welts 
like blooming
 blackberries 
atop the skin.

It is the anchored heartsickness:

of not leaving 
steady footprints 

behind me, 
which I cannot bare. 

If only I could scatter glossy 
rose petals of myself at any
crossroads 

And shake off the notion
of time passing through me
like rainwater? 

I would be so much more;

I would be happier with these
bags I carry——

I would finally be content. 

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