Water From The Wound

Do you know what it's like to sit in the musty heat of an Indonesian hut?

As the sun streams through dusty cracks, you find your wisdom lost.

Why move when Sisyphus is my master?

Saving the world because you can't save yourself.

Do you know that feeling, sitting at the end of the world?

Your spirit is dying and all one thinks about is how much you hate the food.

I'm trying to find the author of this tale. I hope it's not me.

It is me.

It is me.


I brought me here to this dirt floor to hide my despair.

I wasn't smart enough to get caught.

Peeking through the slits, the sun I see is not my sun.

I'm down to savoring seconds.

Perhaps I'm here because I believe I can never have anything different.

So I squat in heat so thick it sticks in your lungs and morosely muse the unanswerable.

My blazing breath is a problem, you see.

My body shrivels parched yet I must live on water from the wound.