i am a wayward brushstroke,
more water than paint, fading
in color like the skyline
just beyond the reach of the sun.
a peripheral image reflected
implicitly in sepia- tone photographs.
a mirage at the desert's horizon,
illusory and fanciful. i've grown
hoarse from shouting at the heavens,
calling out to a god of my imagination.
i'll dig a mass grave with every word
that makes its way past my parched throat,
iron lungs for tombstones. suffering
eternally, sorrow overcomes.