Mud

Fresh dirt from the day, smears it's life unto you.
From the puddle, it stains the fleshy cotton of your trousers.
Into the depths of every solitary strand of interweaving.
There, on your pants, is a spot of mud.
Where did it come from?
In the dead of summer, in the dead of 102 degrees.
The truth sinks in, as you look up toward the sky.
Blankets of black, and coarse gray.

Lovely.

Down from the heavens, pours the splendor.
And there, on your trousers, is a mud spot.
You ponder the meaning of such an ideaology.
An idea that, maybe, just maybe, the spot wanted to kill you.
The mere thought of the brutal ounslaught; rain against flesh.
You thinks of paranoia, and it's effects on your grandparents.
Suddenly.
Suddenly, you realize just what thought went into this.

None.

And then you think, with all your might.
Am I big time? Or just a fag in the way.
A bundle of sticks to be burned.
The thoughts swirl, and you think even deeper.
You come to, and look at your watch.

It's been 5 seconds.