Query any poem you want.

the world doesn’t stop in

 it’s tracks

to pick up where

 it left off

when you claim that

 you are ready-

sharp thorns cut through

 worn shoes

and leave behind impressions of blood and

 dust on the earth.

the path laid before you stretches

 miles

and with it the pain of

 memory

this pain i know to be too

 real.

for what else to remind us

that we are simply

 mortals

than the wounds that never

 heal?