In the Sand

I need to wander along

the path, walking stick

in my hand.

 

The sun followed me across

the sky, dried fruit

my only nourishment.

 

Splinters from the wood in

my flesh, worn-down leather

covered in sand.

 

I curse the stick for

its weight, heavy burden

of my establishment.

 

As I carry it through

the crowd, dark blood

colors my hand.

 

But then I look into

the future, walking stick

in my hand.

 

I refuse all help from

now on, I put my head

in the sand.

 

 

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