MUD PUDDLE

Minutes tic by.
The hours turn to days
I'm dying.

And the despair of knowing,
is unbearable.

After having rid the waves
of the highest clouds,
and after having held the handle
of the swiftest sword,
And lived the life of lightning,
it's unbearable to be sitting back here,
in the dirt of a mud puddle,
while a storm flashes overhead.