Under the glare

Safe in the sands

blanketed in the sterility

of desiccated life

I lay myself out

on the plains of pain.

So many have died here

for want of a single ....

for want of what?

Why do we come here to die,

to be bleached out,

scourged and seared,

by the unyielding glare?

I know why I came:

I came to die.

To kill myself created,

to cauterise the wounds

inflicted by an untrue,

distant self.

Have I died here?

for want of a single ...

for want of what?

I wait for me own

forgiveness

so that compassion

might flow somehow.