Written by a number.
I’ve been fighting for too long, my fingernails are broken down, almost to the base and bleeding.
I’m holding my hands, kneeling on the ground, cement ground, cement everywhere, it’s not even breathing.
I’d rather it be dirt, so I could at least smell something of God
And even if it made me odd, I’d put some in my pocket to share: an offering of sod.
It wouldn’t last though.
Cause that would make it personal and mine and I’m not good enough for holy grime.
They’d blast it out of my pocket with a water hose
And stick me in the hole to finish my time, or
At least until I remember I only a number. I’m nothing divine.
SWL 