crumbles

if i scatter the crumbles of myself on the ground,
would you trace them and follow me down?

Fingertips maybe, and next toes,

Smeared marrow from the cracked bones,

Torn flesh, locks of hair,

With faint trace of rustiness  in the air,

Would you collect all the debris along the way, 

Till you reach the remaining soul,

or you'd rather stand aside and let the wind blows,
and witness all the pieces to be fetched no more.

no more crumble trails in the woods,
just the wind howling, adieu adieu