I am rootless and without good earth to take root in
There is no rain to wash away the dirt and scars
No breeze to disperse the stench of decay
Each day is turgid and sweaty
Each dawning brings a stagnant sameness
The night is empty darkness
No moon rises over the invisible horizon
No stars glow to guide my wandering


In this inhospitable landscape
I awaken each day a stranger to myself
My mouth is foreign and speaks a foreigner’s tongue
My voice is the wind
Ignored unless raging
My hands reach out and grasp nothing
My feet seem to move
Yet I go nowhere
My thighs and ankles ache from their vain attempts
To move forward, or move on
Within this breast
Behind tight and too-heavy ribs
My heart searches for a stable cadence
A right-feeling rhythm


I have the blade
And am afraid to draw it down my arm
Afraid that no blood flows in these veins
Only dust and regrets

Were I to dig a hole
And attempt to pull the dirt in over myself
The earth would refuse my body

If I jumped from a height
I would only be shattered on the ground
Condemned to crawl 
Like Eden’s reviled serpent

Yet my sleep is a broken thing
Restless and full of the faces of loves
Forever beyond reach
Without hands or arms to touch
Or comfort


I am unwelcome
A desolate thing no home desires
Shelterless and cruelly exposed
In a frigid and sharp world
When finally I am allowed to die
There will be no epitaph
No-one will notice my passing

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
― Ernest Hemingway

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