Twenty-Seven Months

TWENTY-SEVEN MONTHS

Twenty seven
months ago
In a bottled 
land
of awakening
dread

Laid my soul
like dead
garden leaves.

The vicissitudes 
of this coat
I wore
on days
stagnated 
with the sweat
of toil
on roads of
rocks.

An unforgiving
Saharan desert
in the house of I

No prophet, 
nor no scholar
could
Water the unknown
sands,
its fine grains
slipping
through my
hands

As footprints
embedded
this nomad Place,
thousands others
had come before,
malnourished

the vultures
had picked
the bones of their
discontent in this
Desert
of Saharan land,
waterless.

Crimson flecks of
blood
on fingers,
grasping mirages
floating across
those blue,
cold, deadened eyes.

I Searched
desperately
for
forbearance,
Like a pilgrim
searching for the
Enlightened path

Via the bones of
those
before them

In a never ending
Saharan desert.

by Robin McNamara © 2020