In my world it rains indoors.
The riverbed is always flooded.

The bottle is opened
and the hot liquid is poured.

And it keeps pouring.
Over its cold heart.
Little blocks of ice.

Lying in darkness,
I speak of unspoken things.
How much I reveal is unknown.
Even to me.

In my head...
In my head they are crying.
Their constant gaze.
I'm still fighting...
I'm still dying...

My childhood scars run deep.

And they burn...

In the black I feel a warm hand
touch my back.
It guides me safely.
I can not survive the night,
without this guiding hand.

I am not a beekeeper.
I cannot control their raging storm.

Yes...

I too hear the thrum...
They are forcing their way out.

The box is too full already.

The dark shapes are moving in the blackness.
The children's hands are bound
and they are beaten.
They want what was taken from them.

I can't help but think...
the guiding hand is not enough...
Release the children from their box!

I will stand on the flooded riverbed
and pay with one gold coin for passage.

GRAHAM MURPHY