Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Even Water


I was walking from a desert oasis
where the leafy day occurs effulgently at will,
into the dry hot sand.
Men are thirsty—
with the kind of thirst that makes
you rant and rave with fever,
that even water cannot quench.

The prison chaplain had told me
that the men in prison cells
were desperate,
looking for any way
they could
to fill the burning desire
ravaging their flesh.

Desire,
you consume men
with the things they cannot have,
and then burn them
like a house to the ground.

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