#0051

Well, I guess that's it;
Door closed.
And who can tell who shut it?
You or I?
The heavy thud of wood on wood.
The narrow escape of my face
And my heart.

It may be that I rejected your hand;
I held up my head, walking tall
Towards an anticipated future.
I didn't turn back to look where you stood
And as you tried to run beside me
I brushed you away...
So, I suppose it was only right
That you should stick out your foot
And trip me...

As my head hit the mud
I was elated at your victory.
How right it was that I should land at your feet.

I don't know how long I should lie here
Before attempting to stand.
Perhaps I will lie in the dirt
And make a pattern of it
As the sky cries to liquefy my solid ground.