The Dirt People

 

Last days,

coming out of our favorite state.

Blissful ignorance,

bleeds colors

muddying the palette,

turning everything

shades of grey

and brown.

 

We can’t see the difference

between the shit,

and the mud.

Even up close,

we wade in it,

bathe in it,

cover ourselves,

as if hiding in the Earth,

and call it, “Beauty”.

 

Standing in the field,

naked as the day we were born,

waiting for the rain,

that first sniff of new life

to come and wash us clean.

It is slow to come,

too slow,

and by the time it does,

our cover of brown mud

has dried

into an almost impenetrable shell,

and the rain just beads right off of us.

 

By now,

we can’t even smell it,

we can’t even feel,

or taste

the foul corruption

that has become our new skin.

We can only surmise

that the sky must hate us,

for it sends rain

that we cannot taste,

and cannot feel.

 

Sensitivity lost

to even the touch of each other,

we recede deeper

into our dark, stinking shells.

Somewhere we hear

the sharp impacts of hammer blows,

as one of us uses a rock

to smash their way free

of their self-made prison.

 

Under the baked-hard shell,

the cuts and bruises bleed

from the effort

and soon, they cry out

in what surely must be

the most excruciating pain.

We have long forgotten

the sound

of someone crying

for freedom.

 

 

HG – 2022

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