Cactus (After Eliot)

I'm counting the hours since the last time.
It's like not smoking,
but it's not not smoking.

It's worse.

It's like something less than how bad it is,
because everything is less.

Degradation is its own music,
a medication
lasting as long
as consciousness.

You take one hit
and the world spins crazy
and the mind takes
a hike
hitch hiking the desert
the cactus
the aching palms raised up
and never ever putting their hands down for the life time of the plant.

Born into a service to hold up the sky
and never to know the joy of resting
your head upon your arm.

I suppose, a cactus might think to itself to stop.
It's needles would drop.

It's trunk fail to hold its branches aloft.

Falling over,
it would look like a victimless circumscription in a murder investigation:
About 6 foot 6 inches. Thick yellow hair, green tanned skin, and eyes the color of death.

That's what waiting is like.

runningturtle87