Too long a service of patience and pain
Breeds new cacti in gardens of heart
That wear their winters all year.
Tired with the crumblings of leaves through my valves,
I puzzle for the breezes of spring that’ll blow
Never now even for a week.
Should I still beg more patience and strength
To last my hours still oozing with blood,
Or elixir of perfection, well beyond reach
That’ll mould me a god out of clay?
Blistered and bled, I stagger through the sand
And scatter as twigs in nor’wester land.