It shambled in - the morning.
Writhing, dextrous, it willed wakefulness
out of the nest, which spewed blackness.
We rose. The sun and the sleeper - slashing eyes
with light and therefore, pain.
The sore of seeing.
Outside, we touched leaves, reminiscing a time
when they felt pale, cool, living, to the hand.
Land, which once was, Birthplace.
Screamingly, high priest of tribal song,
grabs gluttonously - rapes gleefully.
Sleeper moves slowly through chilling chorus
of choking time.
Weaving breath of lifeless hope-
waiving...
Sun is blistered high now and hot. Day is middling
and water needs rush to fill wanting veins.
Ah, the life bloodiness of its giving is thirsty.
We are all, deafeningly parched.
Lil Cook
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