Waiting For The Show

the sun beats down

at 102 degrees, as you

silently wait for

the show to begin,

it is always like this,

a pause,

a cost,

a loss;

there is no other way;

the knife cuts deep,

you seek a finish,

a final place of rest, as

it comes upon you cold

and wet,

rushing and wild,

strangely familiar;

empty and final;

there are things bigger

than fear or lust,

bigger than insecurities

or satisfaction,

places where the night

gathers once more,

and it is never what it seems,

never what is expected,

licking every last drop,

leaving nothing behind,

raging like a beast,

with no hope for tomorrow,

purging every second

for all it is worth,

ripping flesh into

mountainous shreds,

scattering forgotten remains

upon the blowing wind,

howling until the morning

dawn;

a place which no one can see,

a land that no one can understand.

.

.