walking on sleeping feet.

give me something to sink my teeth into-
an apple, just picked from the tallest branch.
something to sustain or satisfy.

my hand are cold and numb from the
shallow, hollow wind.
i walk, or float, on sleeping feet,
always almost waking.

my mind is just hovering
a few inches above the ground,
before my steps,
ready to be swayed;
a kite in the breeze.

there are too many stones
thrown from snipers.

hit me.

wrap your punches around my string
and take me down.
converge two selves into one
self and set me on the shelf
regaining the perpetual knowledge of
now.