Myths once holy, morph to slag.
Country frays threadbare.
There is not enough water to wash away
the festering stains that darken my days;
not enough dreamless sleep to clear unfocused eyes,
nor temper the pain beneath pallid, pustuled skin.
Gurgling, like a bullet-riddled lung
Pulling thick air through torn bloody tissue, I limp through life.
Breath desiccates everything to cadaver dust.