dehydrated on a primitive road

Primitive Road
Primitive Road

six miles
the last car in the dirt parking lot
the only person
exposed to the dry sun

nothing but me
a hard baked trail
and the echo of orzabal poetry
as the shadows of my lifted fingers call the cadence:
one, two, three, four

legs turning
defiant of the heat
mocking my body’s desire for rest

racing downhill
never feeling better
screaming across the wilderness:
“faith can move mountains
fire can cleanse your soul”


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