Begging for relief

The bags under my eyes
Are heavier than the bags
In my left arm as it cries,
Begging, for relief.

It searches for what is not.
There is no relief,
For my arm or for the clot.
This clot making it’s way to my heart.

I stand on that bus,
Destination- nowhere.
Clenching the steel truss,
Begging for relief.

Returning to the simpleton,
Unsuccessful and unequipped.
“I told you so” to be common.
The bus goes further down it’s vein.

The boy who left town,
Now to return.
Empty handed, broken down.
With a sore arm, and a sore heart.