the wasteland
sterile body, where do i make my home? is there warmth to be found in your sparking breath? is there rest to be permitted in the beds of dry rock and cracked soil; your crumbling bones and their hot dust, your torn, sandpaper flesh and its dried blood? is the safety of your ceiling only to be found in its suffocation? sun-baked and taut; the weight of your oppressive shade. knees buckling beneath your thick shadow; parched aegean. trembling legs, how do i proceed! choked burden, how do i breathe!
i will crawl through your land and hold my breath 'til i arrive. but let it be known through my cut throat and blistered feet, through my gurgled words, through hot blood and withered bud, that there is no tower to be built from your bleached bone.
there is a long journey ahead.
thus, i must begin! sweet face so high above the barrier, watch me go! arrive forty! i will show you the infinite jewel! cleansed, sweet breeze and key in hand! wait for me, open arms, and i will meet you there! dearest friend and most beloved judge,
i have begun.
