The Parched March
Laboured breathing heavy; lips sand dunes, parched
Dragging, plodding, trudging, in exhaustion, marched
Carrying sirt-çanta, heavy as hell-fire stone
Marching with the others, but marching all alone
Pleading with God, marching, marching, silent, group solace
Somehow, some way, this would be a short-lived chalice
This burden of what surely was eternal damnation
Would somehow not destroy my spent determination
Would God hear my silence from this blazing-desert fire?
Would thirst ever quench in a body, in hell’s putrid pyre?
Feet blistered and bloodied, boots 5 kilos each
Will this end, that I live to hear a lap-lapping beach?
Secrets of past shadows swam freely through my mind
Trudging on and grudging on – nothing left to find
Bodies march before me, skeletal silhouettes of dread
Just as embers dry and fade, surely we’d soon be dead
Marching, marching, marching for days, days, days
Heat and scalded time, my sanity fizzles, frays
Point A to point B, just what was the reason?
Had to leave, had to go, leave this airless season
Three more miles, two more miles, one more mile, none
We had finally arrived, but the torture not done
My body ached, body quaked, battered, bullied, bruised
At the end of it all?
I simply
felt
used
Easter Ellen
~ writing what won’t leave me alone until it is expressed
Easter Ellen writes poetry, prose, fables, reflections, devotional pieces, and three-degree-sideways observations on life. Her work moves through humour, beauty, bite, tenderness, story, and the truth she relentlessly seeks beneath ordinary moments.
She also helps women think clearly, choose intentionally, and move forward with self-trust through content, coaching packages that meet them where they are, and practical tools for building better habits and thinking processes.