What more can I say
when the rhythmic nothings grow tired
and my throat dries and chokes
on the dust kicked up
as I march along a footpath
all too familiar.

Gravel and sand compressed
by the many measured steps taken before.

I sit at the foot of our bed,
waiting for prose
or a break in this stanza,
to put new meaning to my lips
so I can speak rainfall into existence
and wash away the gravel and sand
and sprout new ground cover
to grow over the tired footpath.

But my effort goes unrewarded
with only the footpath infront of me,
ready for my short-fallen words
to guide my steps.