Cup of Water

I was homeless once and fell asleep
somewhere, lost in the Nevada desert
I slept on the low ground because
high ground belongs to the rattlesnakes
I slept in the clearings because
bushes belong to the scorpions

And when I woke up all sticky with failure
I found my dreams evaporating fast
from dirty fingers and tired hands
and Love, yes even Love
had fled my dry, cracked lips

My feet were nothing more than
burns and blisters, top and bottom
yet still I raced on with childish hope
all the while grinding that pathetic sand
deeper and deeper beneath torn skin

I want to keep running, I promise you I do
but when it’s high noon I can’t find the Sun
hiding up there in the bright white sky
I can’t tell East from West or North from South
and I know I’m going in circles too
always to the left - damn my bloody right foot

There are no Valkyries, there are no angels
there are no spirits, there are no gods
which is why I hate to mention now
my own persistent and fatal flaw
that as usual, I simply can’t recall
where I left that last old cup of water

- Just a peasant

Photo of Mojave desert from RickO's photostream (RickOのphotostreamからのモハーベ砂漠の写真)