I Want To Go Home

I sign, and from the moment when my ink - naive and plain - lays down its life, I cry. Microwaved air brushes against anxiety plays with our concentration, dances with sweat. Our eyes: giant pendulums patrol inside this brimming bucket, guarding the lies. Children, ragged and seemingly archaic, graze in herds along this expanse. This thirsty sight calls for aid. Sand slips sensually into every cranny. I can taste the insanity. Falling like trees they multiply, lining up nought after nought with the lick of my trigger. Featureless faces lay gaunt; their cheekbones defiant and dark reach out for consolation. Blood-curdling screams scratch scathingly throughout my body, grating on my bones. I am lost. We are the foreigners. I want to go home.