The symbol of your soul,

The dirty streets of your rustic dream,

Of that winter home in the forest.

Or perhaps the muddy earth,

From after the rain,

The defeated walk,

And the stains on your feet,

The brown, copper world,

Of your life,

The remnants of us,

The friendship,

The pull to your soul, always a pull,

Sitting here, I could write about you forever,

Stitched to my heart,

And together yet pulled apart,

Like ripped seams,

And we wonder why people are not good,

Or great, to one another, like Bukowski said,

The endless walk through the fire,

We do not do anything well,

I still see you treading down the hill,

In the dirty streets,

And in the mud,

Your soul stained brown just like your last name.