The Petrichor Gazette

The Maine, 

​

Like Death, I crawl

toward things that I cannot touch.

 

I have been made from rotten clay,

formed by hands that forgot me.

 

I wander up the hillside,

looking up at the road,

Where a house awaits – that I will never inhabit.

 

There have existed lives I will never know.

 

Oh, my lord, this field is eternal,

And I will never know how to escape it.