Muddy. Greasy. Spoiled.

I lay there thirsty.

I crack up.

I am cracked and turned into fine pieces.


I am beaten and beaten again.

There is no limit set.

When do I fall?

Which is the final blow that takes me down?

I lie here, awaiting.

Thunders roar. Wind gushes.

The cool wind touches and the coldness within finds home.

Weeks. Months. Seasons later,

It finally pours.

But I am still dry and cracked.

As though there is a cover, a shield, a mask.

That even  this downpour leaves me parched.


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