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The Dry Tear
The sandman moved to the corner as I eyed him. The pain creased, and sheared my attention. Pain would shoot blanks at my head. Running would only excite the strange feeling of being followed but not contacted. I touch my memory and cut my finger, blood covers dry tears. My lip curls, quivers, and then flattens. I work too hard to see through crusted saline. Fingers can’t clean away the frozen, shattered, lens from dirt. I can feel the moment but a reaction is concealed in a dry tear. I see myself on the ground unable to stand, but am I standing? I cling to the hair I pulled out. I look at it as I pick up the mane I once had. It was my strength, it was my distinction. But they never let me be myself so my mane was just me fighting back at a wall to high to clime. Once again I look back, once again I break the skin. There are no handles to keep from falling. The edge of time moves away, but than retracts towards me, I react with a windless breath. I try to breath, but feel no life. My cries are mute, I am not heard. I drown in a dry lake in a very deep valley. Only shards of light reach me, I feel the warmth on fingers but it is fleeting. The heat is being replaced with chilling cold. Soon I see the breath of my despair. Desperate to escape I challenged my gate keeper. Weakness buckles my knees but doesn’t change the equation. I push my hand fully into the light and feel the evaporation.
Copyright ©
A. Dark Scottishhorse
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