Before you is a shining sea of flowers
And rows of corn that sprout from glass,
Beside you great rolls of yet more foliage,
Their vibrancy is a reminder of your inadequacy.
Their jagged pillar is thrust upon your shoulders
Until it bursts and floods your spine
But still, you marched on, the thorns
Diving into your tendons, the rubble
Diving into your thighs, the question
Diving into your soul and leaving limitless red marks.
But still, you march on, pausing only inside,
As if you cannot hear the wind howling
For you to stop, or the thorns
That refuse to part for your toes,
As if your wit, will, and audacity
Are enough to live on.
For in the core of your being,
You know they are.
When the final drops of dew fall
Your fingers will be there to catch them,
Because your keen nose can sense
When the dew is due to be rain
And the dunes are due to become a coast.