Author Information
At Rest In Death Valley
Given bread whilst dying of thirst
and forced to endure the passing
clouds that may taunt him as he'd curse
the day and its heat, amassing;
he'll refuse to consume and lay,
prone like a dry spring underfoot,
and wait for the treacherous shade
that always leaves and never should.
Tolerate, they'd say. No, not how,
but they'll recommend it for days
and in sharp unison, without
seeing my bare wits as they fray
and fall from ear to fry upon
the paving stones all flattened, cracked,
and grounded down to dust along
the gutter. Whereas I had lacked
awareness before I tumbled
and exposed myself to the wrath
of unknowing; I was humbled
by extremes and the bruising path
they'd reveal to me. Enabled,
I'd yet to see a shimmered dream
worth crawling towards, 'til fabled
figures came to me. When I screamed,
exhaled - a furnace by account
of all the burning sat at core -
the shadows paused and whirled about
and from discarded stones, a door
revealed itself by will of none:
the greatest absence never sought,
and beckoned, swelled, soon to be gone
without a hand to grasp the knob.
Propped atop one shattering arm,
I'll craft a length out of myself
that is enough. And when the harm
is done, maybe I'll arrive, held
aloft by good intentions spared
by the fat bastard sun, its breath
and lucid figures made to scare
me out of complacency's rest.
