Cadence.

Hot summer sun,
heats the tarmac that runs,
and scorches the feet
of impoverished lost souls,
without shoes to walk in,
through towns people gawking,
thinking, glad I'm not him,
who wanders at whim,
down paths long and twisting,
erstwhile resisting,
and struggling for breath,
smoking crystal meth,
on a diet of salvation,
broadcast to the nation,
with a daily variation,
smiling white teeth,
that devour beneath,
their Ikea breakfast tables
a diet of internet fables,
misquoted,
distorted,
misaligned,
while sneers and jeers
remain asinine,
fields and trees
undistorted by time,
share secrets and whisper,
to those sleeping beneath,
in blankets
wrapped tightly,
a name
that is thine.