feverish hours enveloping the nights in the driest of consumption. faith appears, not as a matter of question, but consolation to a life stranded in an indifferent condition.
in the final reading, i am but a tumbling shadow, crumbling flat at the only familiar it knows; a persisting loneliness, unbuttoned, down to a bruise.
let Him know that i have overgrown an insufficiency & distance; too difficult & far-off all concepts of home.
had the earth refused the covering of rain, no one would realize that it takes only water to smooth these hard edges.
but what if the drought is stretched in dullness, destined to tightly enwrap a swollen soul inside a liquid darkness; much, much thicker than to contain.. what then?
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