Defects of Cyclic Existence

As if its flesh had been peeled back,
And salt poured into its open wound,
Thought, possessed by an insatiable anxiety
Stretches the body thin.
Blisters dress both of my hands,
And puss drains from the soles of these feet,
The fruits of tirelessly laboring
To build that which fell before it ever stood.
The tongue fattened with words,
Swims in circles,
Trying to tell a story that never was.
When days end has come,
Is this what we pile dirt upon?