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self-portrait
carried on a wind too soon forgotten, my praises for you have lost momentum and the gravity of my situation rains them down upon me, unheard.
beaten by a storm too long in duration, my hopes for intercession climbed upon a stick of remorse and bobbed in a pool of unfed waters.
rooted in a God-less gumbo, my will has cured in the salt of my tears and leaves my flesh pickled, preserving the state of my decay.
catapulted into this dire position, I wait for a hand from the heavens to grasp me, shake me, slap me, caress me, form me, crush me, tear me, break me.
wrapped in a world too quickly receded, it is my fate to be unremembered, undelivered – the hollows of my skull, to heaven on looking, the remains of my hands, to glory unreaching.
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