Tracks

 Inside sleeping, there's a melting candle making dancing shadows on the wall that will follow you all of your days, a Priestess lies dormant, clouds drift and things have been rearranged like the dreamlife of cats. 

Outside breathing, it smells like trees in the rain, unbothered Sunday shoes inch churchward and avoiding the wagon-wheel ruts in the path, flowers grow in the mud-red tracks eventually, reminiscent of all the things I have lost.