Blind man can see

Blind man can see the smoke lining the clouds
Some good among the fragments
Sarcasm is an art form
Measuring the half life of dreams
Irrecoverable fragments
Calculated from one point in time to another
Double meaning lining up along the walls
Remembering running by the fields all covered with snow
The ice freezing on me eyes and in my lungs
Each word in my ears
From the last two years
The beat matching the foot steps
Over 26 miles along a dirt trail
The path a lonely empty road
Running to get away from the memories
Still stuck in my head
Running till my body gives up
And I crash in the snow
Self pity is a hard to sallow
And still look in the glass