Roadkill

Rain splashes down,
mingling with tears
and blurring reality.
I feel detached,
buried beneath the
remains of bad decisions.

Disorder and distress
now the great clarion
call, I wear weariness
like a wet cloak. I am
soaked to the core,
shaky, weak, and tired.

I learn to fly, soaring
high above failure,
somewhere over the horizon,
far from from the stench
of broken dreams and
pathetic roadkill.

© 2022 Steven Barto

This is a revision of an older poem, Broken Dreams, I wrote years ago in active addiction.