April 22, 2010

Canaan

Posted in poems tagged , , , , , , , , , , at 3:36 am by Mark

The sand that creeps into my boots,
That coats the bolt of my rifle;
The grains which cover every surface
And cloud out the horizon with gray haze,
Permeates my consciousness, becomes a part
Of my thinking. To be dry, and not dusty,
Wet without mud, or to tumble through grass
Would be a miracle to my sand blasted soul.
Cool winds make it worse, and a stillness,
Where heat bakes that top layer into cakes
Upon my skin, breaks my adventurous spirit.

This climate, the cradle of many cultures,
Drove them forth, in search of a lost paradise.
And the few who remained became cursed,
Like Cain, to never know rest amongst the sand.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: