I am desolate, hollow As the shaft of a feather. I float easily among the rest, Through fields of grazing bovine, Heads bent to pasture.
My belly whines. The noise it makes threatens forfeiture And begs nourishment, a rest From this emptiness. I push firmly on it to shut it up. I do this many times. It is a nervous hour.
With each passing day, a righteousness flows through my every dry and shriveled vein. This denial of self eats at my humanness. There will be but spirit left.