Thursday, 11 August 2011


The wind scowls so loud
I can barely think;
the thirst lingers so long
I can barely drink;
the glaring gold
soon falls to ink;
the desert cold
cuts my bones to sand.

Acacia, lizards, scrub, flies,
a place where death patrols the skies,
a place where breath comes in sighs,
a place of shifting seas and land.

I wandered lonely as a dune,
swept past brothers,
watchful clouds loom,
there's something holding
my bones to a tune
of desert death, and its scaly hand.

Note: form was an afterthought - please tell me if you don't think it works.

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