بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

This life, a trek for the brokenhearted, a journey so long ago it started, couldn't tell you where the end is much less where the start was, wondering always how much farther, dragging the feet or dragging the soul it's the same for nobleman or pauper. There's no catastrophes swirling about, no imminent miseries, just the in-between solitudes, uncalled for and company-less commisseries, with but my Lord to witness over at times what's left in me: an empty tank when all is spilled and there's none near to receive. So strong the need to love, so suffocating when it cannot be given, like I'm drowning in midair, no CPR it seems, for this self-made victim. With the current one I'm speaking, have to wait until it's all ready, before I jump the cliff and hope there's land beneath my feet and I'm falling steady. Till then I'm held hostage, by what may come to pass or fade back in to dust, whence all we came, some sooner though than others.