July 23, 2013

thorns and thistles at my ankles
sweat beading my brow
and this soil

futility is an untilled field
in the dusty heat of summer
when the planting season was missed
and the only chance for survival
is a bitter battle against
the cursed earth.

my own fault.
my own fault.
not the woman.
not the snake.
i must own this.

and so i fight the earth,
tearing at the hill with
stone and stick and bloody hands
and only the hope that these few drops
sweat and blood
mingled with mud
may yet produce life.

there is a promise coming.
until He comes, i toil.

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