The desert sand four thousand feet below
Is gradually scraping off my skin,
Removing what I'm used to living in,
Allowing glimpses of my bones to show.
If this were not my final visit here
I wonder if my soul would grind down too,
Remove the dirt, let people see right through
The layers of lies from thirty rancid years.
I want the sand to stop moving around;
The humid sky to clarify to blue;
The sun to cauterise my oozing brain;
To crawl back to the start without a sound,
Denying everything I know is true;
To disappear and never hurt again.