Golden

he crept through the streets sent to him
 a small patch of sky looked down on him
 through baskets that weave so thickly
 he saw it on a sea
 of thunder clouds
 a rusty old bridge
 was jailed in his mind
 he thought it was golden
 it swayed to his breath
 and creaked with the bolts
 he unpacked his coat
 and laid down
 with somebody's shoes he traveled
 returning to lands
 of his birth
 he made all the holes to cry in
 and stayed for the time
 when the winds too cold
 the last Ides of March
 was spelled in his ear
 he knew it meant something
 but nobody came
 he sat through the nights
 and watched all the darkness
 it spread with his breath
 and pushed back the sky
 he stayed for the days
 in his home
 a rusty old bridge
 would swing in his mind
 he thought it was golden