The rope around my waist becomes tighter,
I feel the pull but cannot see the force.
“Who is there?” I demand.

Silence.

I kick without motion;
I scream without sound;
All at silence.
What an unfunny joke am I.
The gods are eating caviar, Swiss chocolate, and drinking kopi luwak.
They’re whooping it up.

I drag my feet.
The earth beneath them grows hot.
It’s friction, waste in the making.
It stinks like rotting flesh.

The mounting winds tear my garments.
They melt as I cling to them and howl
In terror lest I see the naked body they now barely hide: my own.
My soul.

I hurt that old familiar hurt,
Yet I grow hungry even as I see that all the stuff
Which I hold to be my life
Isn’t worth a damned dime
(My favorite coin).

I want to break free, to get dirty, to feel that warm moist earth
Between my fingers, as I at last smell fresh breath: my own.
My soul.