Life is like a sharp stick placed to your rear,

poking the cheeks when you want to stop. Time does not stop. Time will not stop. Does the stick leave you dripping red?

The stick sits firmly behind us, making us keep pace, tiring us as it marches us across a desert—the sand burns our feet, the sun braises our skin, and the dry air parches our throat.

We walk toward an oasis of trees whose location shifts as the sun, always just beyond the horizon, though we never come closer, just as the sun never wanes—the moon never rises.

Wishing for the darkness, our legs ache. Hoping for release, we dream of running. But— no, we never run. It was beaten out of us before they set us forth as dogs.