Here, in the wasteland of my dotage, I am starving and no amount of commandeered bravado will change that.
The mountains and the water, two end posts that tether me by some indescribable force to myself are missing and that umbilical manufactured by my memories is thinning in a terrifyingly quick fashion.
I see the mirages, and the scent of their ephemeral promise leads me forth into the misty eyed night where all things are possible, but to dream still leaves me starving.
Like some land locked mermaid I soak in the bath looking for cloud banks of mountains from the windows of my mind. Knowing that relief is coming. Knowing that once more I will sit in the night watching the leather winged bats zooming over rising fog fingers from the security of my own porch.
And as they feed upon the mosquitoes and moths in the starry sea that surrounds them; I will feed upon the reflections of a pond where the moon smiles up at me and feeds me silence in loving spoonfuls.
Love reaches out, offering me a hand, keeping me afloat in the arid nothingness of an existence where I have stranded myself; promising me that soon the waiting will be rewarded.
And for a while, the smiles are no longer commandeered.
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