a thousand days

He's not sick
but he's not well
that man
has walked through
a living hell
what he needs
is a thousand days
to surface and recover
to decompress and discover

that man
is hate and noise
and cancerous hope
his days are treacherous
his nights are insufficient
golden were his promises--
rusting now in disuse

when the wind blows over him
his heart races
his mind sharpens
and his body kicks against the pricks
what a way to end up
sold into slavery
chomping at the bit
broken down
but ready to run
beyond this belligerent place
and into
the blinding sun.