muted

some sort of hidden pathway that might make me remember where i was heading,
the little fragmented documented placement of phrases
that label
the type and place and space of your thoughts
leave me lead around ditty to ditty to mind over mind
and there is no sign of rain.
no answer
nor home or knowing or placement of future or reality or sense,
nor what if i know what i am doing again.

little tracks from your own embedded directions.
i try and get lost, helpless, buried, devoured
in some loamy dense warmth. as i clamor
up
the edges of the wound that's not yet formed.