Wash

by Writer

To sit on the step and feel the sky drip on my dry hair has me aching. 

Aching for another drop of pure clear gold to devour me. 

Praying for a storm of colossal proportion to wash me away. 

I’m a block to be eroded. A hill to be swept flat. 

The cracks are waiting to be broken open and torn apart. 

What will we find beneath? Will there be soft skin anew? 

Or will there be a crying beast breathing fresh air for the first time?  

I shudder in thought like a screen door to the wind. 

Rain fiery redemption on me, yet I stand accused and convicted. 

If not, just storm, blow, and wash me away. 

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