The A.T.

Blistered feet,
one before the other
before the other, another one
open sores, open air
continuing on,
they'll tread worn paths,
they'll be led on
terrible green,
so lush, so pure
so maddening, so still
only the sounds
of footsteps
of breathing
of wasps
instrument a soundtrack
with complaints and wistful dreams
long into the night
and dark are thos nights
spent in filthy shelters
hiding from bears
weight upn tired backs,
holding a burden, a primal need
alng an ancient trail
following dedications past
they continue, on
blistered feet,
one before the other,
before the other, another one.
~brittany
1/6/09
i wish that i could put the proper indents on my poems, makes them broken up more nicely.