Pull Pit

The cold chilling wind is my blanket.
Curled up or tying my limbs together for warmth
some cardboard and disturbing sounds from animals
or machines are my mattress.
I am decaying.
My sleeping bag is my home on these bitter nights but
my sleeping bag has been stolen, taken from the place where
I hid it.
The shadows spit and sneer at my footsteps,
make threatening motions.
My dreams are no shelter, there too I’m exiled within and worry
for my dryness when the bad weather of my brain brings rain.
A reality of exhaustion: weeks and weeks without proper sleep
my mind my body my soul dragging its feet glossy lips and pointed
fingers telling me it’s fake, I’m a forgery, that there’s plenty of
opportunities out there for me to lose hope.
More sand is brushed from my hair than the dirt beneath your feet.
I am no junkie or alcoholic but those two things give me armor
against the night.
Some one says “Well what about Allah?” and what about Him?
Maybe I’ve fallen out of favor with Him too.
The crickets no longer play so the scorpion sings.
The butterflies have caught on fire and the snakes fall from the trees.
There is no where left to hide and we know someone has chained up
all the exits.
The firing squad will be here soon but never soon enough plus
I’m told about their aim.
This sunlight thawing my cells warming me is the first warmth I’ve
had in 8 hours and I will stop writing this piece soon so I can get to
the food line and have my first meal in what has been much more so.