Every fiber of my being
Evaporates as I scurry
Across sun-bleached dunes
That lack my accustomed shade.


There is no mother
To feed from—just salt
For stinging the wounds
And seasoning the psyche.

I’ve got little air
Generating from my swinging tail;
But certainly not enough
To fan my inhibitions.

Which would hurt more?
The excruciating pain that surges
From each bite, or rather
The uncertainty of its growth?

I died to live
And I’ll live to die;
As I seek the shades
Of life’s mirage.