Count To Four

My shoulders ache from carrying your cross.

I wish the devil bit my tongue when I said –

Honey, I need you the most.

The beaming Sahara sun drains me of hope.

We were young and dripping in red,

Now you are passing me the rope.

All my toes are bleeding on the pavement.

The memory seems to fade,

Then it breaks my neck as a statement.

I cannot recognize my own hands anymore.

They are now made of pure led.

Honey, run before I count to four.

-JW