when the road was a river

soft, my tread is way worn down as light a sole as ever a soul of mine could drown the road's to-sea endeavor. yet, the fertile storm is quick each yellow stripe the hook and bait - it's such an evil trick - to keep me in anxious wait. me, a drone that swims with charm (and thinks with his own wit, it'll keep him safe from harm) and doesn't know he's hit. but, like the arctic sheets of rain that pelts the fish I'm in uproad to go, it's nature's refrain of my mecca laced with sin. where once the water ran from flesh to spirit churns in curdled pain and I, the man whose mote of youth, for age, still yearns. the life of this no longer suits but take the blood of mine, through river's venal roots like the sea takes the sunshine.