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What if . . .
the floods never came
and the years of plenty
was just propaganda
perpetrated by pharaoh
I’m standing in the dunes
and for miles
there's only dust
sand falls like rain
the exodus never happened
plagues
have come and gone
famine
has left a bitter taste
in my mouth
my bones are arid
saturated with thirst
tears run dry
they carve canyons
down my cheeks
my saliva is as glue
it sticks my tongue
to the roof of my mouth
there’s no way out of my sins
the years of plenty
have succumbed to years of naught
no way to get in
even from within
I'm floating like moss
f a c e d o w n
along the river's edge
g r a s p i n g
at hollow reeds
already plucked
they make paper
to tell this story
I drown again even though
t h e f l o o d s n e v e r c a m e . !
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