Tripping at the gates, wasting all away

Clumps of sand in the mouth taste bad when the hand scoops up from the dirt underfoot. Veritable switch and change leaves a poor and sour feeling on the tongue. As dry and as arid as the back of the hands. All too swollen from swatting flies from the backsides of others.

People get ready, there's a refrain a coming and they ask for no tickets. Too much paper work.

Watching back on the sun and there's a clear mark of blindness as the searing burn of it flecks a hole in between the eyes that doesn't quite come right with dots and markers of pot pourri. Eating the leaves of which is far less desirable than the smell. Dirt and sand and dried petals in the hand. Somebody finds something to eat eventually. Just not like this, not like this at all.

Paddock wise intents carve up inner demons of strength and fool hardy bravado. Too long in the field. Too long in the sun. Too long on the run. Knees fall on elbows, egos fall from trees.

Eating grass is the best kind of side dish when the hands clamour for the grubby mass of dust that leaves trails and burns throats before rendering lungs trampolines of rickety flair. Drop to the floor and never rise again. No breaks at the gates.