Sunday, August 29, 2010


They want what we don't have,

deep within the ground
where the sun dies a brilliant yellow-orange-purple,
blinding eyes
covered by elbows and hands
torn and old,

the dust is the skin
brown and tasteless
burning off in opaque tired rays
like a parched army navigating
dried rivers and mortal wounds;

I have nothing left.

No comments:

Post a Comment