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Post Traumatic Growth
I had been hoping the desert doubt would turn into a tempered glacier of glass, the world, some shepherds might slide on years of lies, now transparent, I have become observant of the filth that’s streaming down the cracks, long roots of last refuge found a justification to live despite the psychological pollution.
Yes, I have recognized your disorders, some intentional, some uncontrollable.
Currently, satisfying thirst with resourcefulness, growing because it’s all there is left to do, while the rain remains a mystery, but anticipation for miracles was exterminated by a fatal increasing drought.
In hindsight, I am blessed to be flooded with your unwanted residue of traumatic aggressions.
Currently, you are my possession.
Since I was gifted a dead-end.
Oasis I’ll pour, not a drop of remorse.
No one’s inmate.
Dragging your sand & rocks..
Checkmate, water source.
