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.