Through the Desert
I am stuck in the desert, in fathomless sand,

buried hip-deep in this broken chariot

of tired words, ill-fitting ideas.

The horse died weeks ago: only skull and skin remain.

But I persist, sustained by withered arrogance,

turned to leather in the heat.

Moved by the wind’s gravity, I sink.

The relentless sun, the cold, black-glass nights,

singe the moisture from skin, and eyes, and brain.

I do nothing to halt this slow decline

into union with the wasteland,

just wait with faint hope for a little rain,

for lions, vultures, a blood-red moon.

Rescue will not come. Nothing comes.

I may endure forever, empty and silent

beneath forgetful dunes.
['Warren Justin Banks']
['Contentment', 'Poetry', 'Love', 'Desert', 'Relationships']