The Way To Dusty Death

 

I asked the mountain to move

and a rock landed on me,

transfixing me to the desert sands;

a mill-stone of my own making.

 

Parched, I cannot move;

the weight of yesterdays sink deeply

deeply to my soul.

If motionless, I find relief.

I relax and let go.

 

A distant cloud bursts

and a gentle zephyr brings the text

“In you I am well pleased”.

Is this the way to dusty death?