The heat of the desert sun,
beat on the boy's bare head,
tired, cooked, vision blurred,
imagining others were with,
but he could not grasp what they said.
Slurred words he mumbled,
as he staggered, weak in his legs,
One thing he spoke clearly as he fell,
were the words, " I think I am dead."
He awoke to cold water dripping down his neck,
the man was holding the back of his head.
"Alot of people depend on what you must do.
Your words are important, no matter what you may think,
Not many will do what you will do.
Drink this water and you will live."
The boy drank, the tastless, seemed so sweet,
once again the boy fell to the now inviting arms of sleep.
As he slept, he dreamed of a perfect world,
of the perfect life he wished he was living,
and as he awoke he could hear that the man was singing.
© Copyright 2016 Tyrone Slade. All rights reserved.