Psych Patients: Alex
Off to my shift at the mirage
Its feigned oasis has been dry since my arrival
And looks like it always was
The thirsty come to drink
Fistfuls of sand falling from cupped hands
Some think it a ruse
That we hoard what’s left for ourselves
Behind locked doors and hidden closets
That a lack of persuasion is all that bars them from paradise
Others trudge along, futility in their steps
Aware that if paradise existed
It has been scorched irreparably
Yet we continue
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