THIRTY FIVE : Untitled

The truth sears into my flesh,
I wait as usual for pain to pass.
Now alone without the murmur of people
Cluttering space; mentally present, omnipresent.
Lying miserable on a rock face,
sordid as the crystal drops fall in sheets.

Pungent thoughts enter through
Leaving behind debris of curses and cries.
What I had, what I have!
A truth? One measly truth,
Garnered from a miserable existence.
Without reason have weathered imaginary battles
Built within the mind,
Starved with a stomach full and tight

How often I wanted to die!
There is stench of decay
Of burning flesh
Tonight I have born again,
Purified in the heat of living.

One who talks of death.
Seldom takes his life.