There is nothing left inside

Not anything hidden deep within my soul

Just an empty shell

Where my heart used to be

A wrung out rag

Left to dry

In a scorching sun that shows no pity

To those that wish to expose mankind’s folly

Futility the fruit of this cursed fig tree

My own soul but ashes

Upon a bonfire of my hopes and dreams

Oh! Lazarus salve my tongue

In this merciless place of heat and pain

As I sit by the pool

With beggars, blind, lame and lepers

Waiting for waters stirred

To once more bathe and be healed…



M.C. Bolton, July 2016