thispoemmightbenotbadbecausethosearentmetaphors

[irregular_luvr]

walk home

my arms are swinging nooses
propelling this swaying trunk forward
against all odds
the feet are dragging clawing fighting roots
clinging to a pebble the cement a soul
of a shoe is nowhere to be seen
for the roots are naked
shamelessly slowing the body
that is slowing the pumping heart
that has worked too hard
is too tired now
to fight the fight within the confines
of this ribcage
and no it is not fair really
for all these pumping quivering organs
to have to fight against the vessel
that holds them captive
all old bark and flaky leaves and twigs
that so desperately wish to succumb
to the roots that would dig
quick as an arrow
into the waiting mound
tilled freshly like a young grave
so that the creaking aching
spine of a trunk of stacked bones
can bend forward with a shiver
can breathe out that dust
that would hang in a momentary stench
identical to that of old straw
before settling into that arch
a sleeping bent and eternal bow
leaves kissing the dirt