July’s heat is cruel and wild,
a fevered breath, both dark and vile.
The earth yawns wide, the chasm deep,
where hell’s foul winds begin to creep.
The past clings tight upon my back,
a wretched bird, its feathers black.
With tattered wings and flesh that weeps,
a leper lost in shadows’ keep.
Prometheus would bow to this burden dire;
I’d rather be bound with him in fire,
chained to that rock, forsaken, grim.
Turns thirty-two, with fate so dim. ...