Concrete

The footpath folds like an envelope, 
in small places, where a skilled hand has
failed to assemble the walkway of life. 

The creases are symmetrical, 
holding the glory of questioning cement, 
abhorred by the passing of wet feet. 

I sink into the fold, blind,
unknowing if your heart
lends itself to the concrete;
in the paradox of perfection,
I am alone by man's creation.