Idle Marchers

Beware the idle marchers. 

Always stomping

never moving. 

Rigged, 

rugged,

never soothing.

Braking banisters offered,

hands proffered, 

racing minds soaring by. 

No wings

no things on idle marchers.

Bleed blue and black blood,

bouncing bullets,

growing mullets

and trying desperately not to breathe.

Never lack of opportunity

only lack of caring. 

Crisp,

crunching noises are their aspiration and content,

while their eyes remain contentless. 

Wriggle,

wringing 

twitches thinking that their happy.

Forgetting swiftly that life is too short for trying

and too short not too. 

Beware the idle marchers. 

Their icy grip is hard to slip

when they fill your head with the air and sighing.

Stand. 

Run. 

Grow away from them.