April 22, 2010


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.


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