Stripped of all but breath,
I survive among the rocks,
the sun is a vulture
circling my flesh,
the moon my confidant.
Withering away,
color drained out,
I bear the fruit
of loneliness,
ripe and unwanted;
salt-encrusted lips,
a dusty old heart,
no angel tears for me.
A procession of clouds
above my head,
the hissing of snakes
all around,
a menagerie
of mirages
passes me by.
These words
no one hears,
deep inside
my roots,
are my only
and my last.

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