Is there any soul left in there worth digging for?
Eh, spirit? Wake up and tell me!
Is there any passion or perfection worth striving for?
I admit it-- I underestimated the desert…
or overestimated my sherpa's ability to guide me through it.
All the authors and the painters and the songs and the ideas
have shriveled away now.
My mind is quite naked without it all… naked, yet still too hot.
All my gods and their muses, all my feelings and their truth
got pummeled by the mocking sand and unfathomable heat,
yet this desert is unaware of its power. It’s not even trying to kill me—
it just does by accident, by proximity.
To write, in a whisper, takes too much strength
Now I am reaching for the mirages ahead--
Now I reach, and exhale.
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