Estranger

When my smile met the gravel road my barefoot feet were on,
for a while I thought that I'd erode through meetings, dusk to dawn.
Fawn the hart of ripped apart, you doe with no remorse;
embrace the path of your own art, it's yours alone, of course.
For I have stood the sands of time while whipped by winds of change,
and understood these times aren't mine, to me they seem so strange.
Fawn the seeds of discontent, you sent to till the field;
plow wherever you are sent, and then your harvest yield.
For I have drank the wine of death where grapes of wrath were spent,
it's liquor stings my baited breath, and twists the things I meant.
But you, with ears of chamomile, so pure and clean outside;
the scent of things you cannot feel, you coward, how you hide!
But I have stood the stand alone and hammered on your door,
with fists worn down quite to the bone, and fingers split and sore;
now hear me, hiding in your house, and taking all my own,
don't fear me, fear the evil louse that comes to take your throne!
For when my smile met paths of hate, and hunger on the road;
the stranger came while not too late, and helped me with my load.
Yet meetings meant not very much until one meant instead
that I could yet still feel and touch and clearly use my head.
So no more pounding on your door, I see the entrance closed;
and I will bother you no more, your error is exposed.
At last to walk that mile again your smile had bid me walk,
to nowhere, every now and then, because of how you talk.
I always talk to strangers now, both healthy and oppressed;
for they have held that self same plow by which you are distressed.
How did you plant the grapes of wrath, and spare no seed of hope,
and think that in the aftermath you would not swing the rope?