There is a desert in the corner of a man’s soul
Where he keeps a thing too precious.
He walks through the hot sand and scrambles over jagged rocks
With a skin full of water, looking over his shoulder to ensure
That nothing else follows him.
It sits all alone, a belief or memory or silly thought too fragile,
Too vital to his being to let it near another part of him.
The visits are frequent enough to keep the thing alive,
And perhaps one day the grains of sands and chunks of stone
Will have no choice but to succumb to the will of the thing
And you will catch a glimpse of it on the other side of a stream.