it is thundering, thundering
and me
i'm shuddering
huddling
under the weight and warmth of discomfort
it doesn't hurt, but
it's a little more than simple empty
yearning

across a vast span of ground i see
myself dragging throbbingly,
and no amount of muscle can hasten my
pace.
solid me, clinging to the memory
of the mud
good child
hang on to what you've got

pestilently, i moan
malcontent unwilling to
release
rotting
to nothing
but clinging
to what's left
[rottin g t o n o t h i n g
but clingingtowhat'sleft]

and yet
outside
i'm sleeping through thunder
on ragged bedsheets
while the rain tries to tell me
to please come back home

07/02/2003

Posted on 07/02/2003
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