I am far from myself, so close to empty. But I have my own hand to hold and for now this is what I crave to own. I will not move from this place, this place in the sand. I will not walk away with another stranger, candy given, pain to come.
I have seen pictures of bodies, dead on the fields of Sudan. So still, so done, rotting in the sun. The breeze shifts a cuff, pushes the sand onto the nail of a hand that once caressed someone it loved. The rot and decay quietly consume every memory, every kiss.
I lie there with them, inviting the decomposition of my existence. The great leveler of egos, petty concerns and trivial worries. The peace maker between warring hearts, broken and deferred dreams. Dead on a field, in a land not my own. I would become the dust of Sudan.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
6 comments:
I love these flights of fancy even if I don't get it.
I was all set to go to Madrid. What do I know?
daddy-I'm glad that you enjoy my flights, where next is the question.
Reminds me of a little ditty my friend Judy taught me, via her nutty aunt:
I like myself
I think I'm grand
I want to go to the show
And hold my own hand.
The next time I'm in town, we're going to stand on the corner and draw a chalk circle on the ground at your feet. Then, you're just going to speak - about whatever you want - and everyone who passes by will be so moved and stunned and amazed that they will give you lots and lots of money and name you Artist of the Year.
I'm with Bimbo!
Suebob,
Love the ditty...very witty.
A sentiment shared by millions I'm afraid.
Post a Comment