Wading through the sand,
each grain, I sift by hand,
while burning sun
and frigid wind
bear down upon
the battered soul within.
For lengthened hours,
and tortured, fruitless nights,
too I have wondered,
the difference
between wrongs and rights.
To want it
is to gorge myself.
To deny it
is to cry for help.
And yet I lie
in thickening abyss
a month gone by
what life is this?
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come live the mountain hippie life with me and never have to work again!
ReplyDeleteDamn it Mali! I heard that everyone came to the farm about a month ago to visit you. I want to come too! Give me your "Address"?
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