Thirsting

I have been hung dry
Wrung out by sweat-soaked parade palms

I am cracked canvas of creation
Raped of resource, of consequence, of circumstance

I am but a memory of ancient waterways
I float, flakes of white ash in the wind
Burned up, burnt out
Blazing remains of apathy

ignorance

arrogance

Fleeting fancies of fire bugs

I am the long black train crossing heroin tracks
I am the twisted spine riding sweatshop backs
I am thirsty

I am the empty shell of man-hurled mortar rounds
I am the piercing smell of mass grave undergrounds
I am thirsty

I am the spaces within skin-lined sidewalks
Flash bulb imprint on a black and white portrait
Low hanging fruit of a Polish prisoner camp
A face forgotten

I am the sun-soaked pavement under whittled down stiletto heels
Stuck to a concrete corner
Lap dancing for dogs

I am the dehydrated souls of children sold across borders
Stolen childhoods, hung to wither in back pages of magazines

I am dry
I am deeply dry

Desperate for a day of harvest, for a reaping of the vineyard
I thirst for the wine of foot-crushed grapes
For the stain on a new community
Forged not in blood but in Living Water

I am the Living Water
And I am so thirsty