The Desert

You really think I want to be here?
Wandering in a pile of sand.
There’s empty stretches of nothing.
Yet you lick your lips dripping with moisture.

Your words are mocking, even if you don’t intend them to be,
There’s plenty of water! Come! Drink!
You think I desire this place?
I desire my lips to be cracked with need?

I know there’s a fountain, gushing with life,
My only hope is that there is one.
If not, then I’d bury myself in the sand.
Bringing an end to this torture.

I was once there, you know,
I used to drink freely and deeply of the water.
Taking for granted it would always be there,
Now you’re the one gorging yourself on plenty.

My tongue demands relief,
So much so that I can’t think of much else.
I wish for relief and cry freely to the sky.
At this point there is no pretense or formality.

The sand seems to be the only thing I know,
The only reality I face is sand, sand and more sand.
Don’t shake your head like that,
You have no idea where I am or why.

You say it’s because I’ve lost the compass,
Or the map, or my guide,
In fact I have all those things, yet I still thirst.
My heart longs for home – but its very far away.

You walk away in disgust,
Judgement sealed – I have never tasted the fountain.
You are everything I hate about home,
Everything that makes me to never want to return.

Do you really think I want to be in this desert?
If I could find a rope, a ladder, a stairway to climb
I’d be rid of this place forever,
But my only comfort is the sand.

(Inspired by Saturday Night’s conversation on “Thirst”)

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