Dry, withered, desolate, broken from my roots.
Driven by the wind, a perpetual rolling mass.
Tossed around as pleased by forces that supersede. They are unaware that it is I who no longer cares.
Objections arise when there’s fire in the belly and passion in the heart. Why talk of dreams that were doused long ago? Is it justified to mourn what never was but could have been?
You see me and then unsee me. There’s no beauty in my scattered being. I breathe the dry and dusty air; it mingles with my frayed persona. Catch me if you can. But who wishes to associate with failure and desperation.
Better sense says – salute the rising sun. Half-told, unbaked stories languish in open spaces, not an ounce of shade nor a blade of grass. Barren lands invite me, they promise to keep me, but there is no home that will respect me.
I’m neither here nor there. Time laughs at my predicament. It offers me chewed and spit out remnants that others have surrendered. I am ashamed but pretence is my second nature. You won’t catch me slowing down to catch my breath.
Roll, roll, roll.
Tumble, tumble, tumble.
My hands and knees are grazed, but it’s my spirit that bleeds. Silence is the language I speak. Do you have the ears to hear? Broken yet not dead, I’m carried to distant places. Every inch of land looks the same.
The rocks and stones whisper indecencies, wishing I stumble upon their ragged exteriors. It’s impossible to fall when you have never risen. I can’t argue. It’s not my place. So they wait like hungry hyenas.
If only someone would call out my name. If only a hand would reach towards me.
But I know better.
Nobody really cares for tumbleweed…