Walking Backwards

Walking backwards,

once done for so long,

makes walking forwards

unfamiliar.

Steps do not come naturally,

jerky, funky, breathing

even grows strange.

Then forward motion commences,

the plants blur

into a yellow-green, a bit of spinning

effect brings some baby blue sky

into the plant pastiche,

a real unreality,

a distorted view.

The corners of my eyes

capture a skew,

a dream-shot,

a tree by a curb,

some grass by an empty lot,

the only picture that is taken in full.

Hidden birds chirp out of sync

with their location,

processed with a delay,

like a film strip slightly disconnected

from its audio file.

Tear ducts don't function properly

when you walk backwards,

a bad machine needs oiling,

so when you're walking forwards

and cry, it is so long overdue

it does not cleanse

as it should.

I am not the troubled water,

I am a stone

on the bed of the river,

shaped smooth

by the choppy, rushing

water,

unmoved.

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