Accents

Sometimes I feel like a gypsy child
Sometimes I dream of my parents
Trying so hard
that blood wilts from their ears,
The line between towns is
A brick wall of my face
Covered in printed words
The corners darkening the closer they come into view
New names filter in with accents,
I cross the street and
Feel as if the sparrows
may be dying,
So slowly, like the leaves falling
In the time between
The summers,
In the time between
The winters.
I try so hard,
Embodying my weakness
when it flows to my shins,
to breaks I make in the trail,
Blood wilts from the toes that I never
see,
 Blood wilts and never
has the chance to run clear