Tuesday, 6′o clock
For the first time, in a long time, I feel alone. This shrewd, brittle, empty bottle feeling echoes loudly upon my spirit; Once lively, Now more barren that Africa's savannas in the dry season. This is my dry season, Caused by under watered relationships And cunning predators. Now I must walk barefoot on the hot plains of what remains of myself; alone. There is no comfort of a mother, No strength of a father to lift my chin, raise my shoulders and push me back into the race, And no love of a woman, it too has gone in this dry season. Alas! I have been defeated. My soul breaks And I am afraid; And I ache with much regret, Gazing at the calm skies praying that the rain might fall, Flood my wilderness, Make me whole again.












