Desert

poetry

there is a desert in every soul.
A barren spot where tumbleweeds
tumble like a cheap prop in an
old Italian-made
Americana piece.

Where animals scratch and paw
the other animals’ burrows,
intent on only consuming so they
may live another day to
consume.

The sun never sets, but it
is a cruel sun. It burns and
boils the skin and blood. It
feels no compassion, and
knows nothing of the truth.

It does not rain here. It only
damps the flesh so the dust
can coat more thoroughly.
There is no respite in these sands.

Mirages hover in every distance
whispering softly of memories past,
making claims on futures will
never come.

It is here I next will meet you.
It is here I see you yet.
In this desert of my soul
I will leave you to be buried
under years of rolling sand.

5 thoughts on “Desert

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