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