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Tortured
My guts wriggle like a gaggle of worms in a pit,
grasping for a distant sunlight bit.
My head boils inside,
a rock of thought inside,
a high pressure acid lump, crying,
for help, comfort.
What hope is there?
What a loss it would be to find a gift for humanity on an island,
alone,
unable to find even food,
and yet have the gift,
and yet no food.
What a loss it is,
to have an impotent gift.
We must scream to that island sky in mourning.
Even on an island, we
are driven by society,
by the demand to succeed
and survive, to build a future.
For the Michaelangelo of cave-painting,
to focus on the cave painting, however glowing,
to the exclusion of sustenance,
is impossible.
For the Michaelangelo of cave-painting,
to focus on hunting, when ineffective at hunting,
to the exclusion of cave painting,
is impossible.
I am zugzwanged.
I am star-crossed.
I am doomed.
On our last day,
what might we regret?
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