And maintaining consistency with our other inadequacy
We shall, stumble on
Crawling if we must, chaffing our skin against the dust of this dry mud flat
Through a twisted gate, that swivels in the wind
With a hideous noise that would grate against even a raven’s sensibility.
We finally crawl through the gate, and up the steps
The clothing’s long gone off our back, the sun, inspected it for days, leaving blisters
We rise up on a weather rusted chair, and gaze out over the white dusty oblivion
There is a pain in our side, hunger
For a bit of company
That doesn’t buzz nor bite
And perhaps we will take flight
The tiredness that is inside the place, withdrawn like the darkness now
That hides behind the sullen windows.
But it’ll be back, when that overblown exaggerated self absorbed light bulb finally drops behind the hills.
The tiredness of waiting, is like the doors long ago fallen off the hinges, It’s taken form like the paint peeled walls.
There is something more, a thirst,
For more than what is here, the words compacted, (chalky, grit like between teeth) restrained, nascent, not yet free,
like the sand in that bottle.
Where has it been? We saw it as we crawled around that mountain- sailing over a dune, on its way to better grounds, the barren sea.
The inside of desolation is resolution ,
The inverse of matter is nothingness
We used to care but that was miles before.
© Matthew Kenneth Kosak