»
Archives
»
Open Poetry #12
»
The Desert Creeps
| Open Poetry #12 |
|
The Desert Creeps |
|
|
Embers_Before_God Member
since 2001-03-06
Posts 101USA |
 It’s there. It’s always there. Framed in a sky of charcoal and pink rose petal clouds. Never does it waver. Never does it deceive me. I wish I could say that I wasn’t envious of the position it holds, of the allegiance it commands. And as I write this, I know it’s a mistake. What has been discussed more, in words, than that, which I speak of now? Have not poets and bards and writers, far greater than I, not discussed it, in their infinite wisdom, their pens and papers filled with more distinction and hue than mine may ever know? I am a simple man. A simple man whose goal rests across the desert. I am not distinguished--not by my pen, nor my features. My only friends are the fire by which I write these humble words and, of course, that picture in the sky. Can you see those cacti? They are not friends. Oh, sure, to the tamed eye—your eye—they appear at peace, especially when that picture fades away. When all the lights disappear, when all that remains are the glowing embers before God, before me, before those tall, straining cacti, they appear as ghosts in my dreams, my nightmares. And when I awake, in a puddle of pig sweat, and see them standing, lurking, before me—flowers, petals, stamens unrecognizable in the midnight sky—they seem to lurch toward me as if they were Death’s shadow coming to collect my unrepentant soul. Yet if I am unrepentant, then why do I worry so, about those cacti, the devil grass that blows sideways in lurching balls of half hidden sand, dust? I pray I haven’t gone insane. I pray to that picture frame. I fear. I fear I have. This is the last of my paper, precious paper. If I can reach those hills, if I can catch up to the sky, then maybe, just maybe, I can survive. I’m so tired. The night is cool, but it’s tomorrow I fear, and the drowning heat of the . . . well, you know. Because the days are so long, hot. It’s then, when I’m betrayed, when I’m torn. It’s then, that time stands still, and the sands fill my boots, and my thoughts return to Death and his creeping guise at night. Oh, how I wish it would end. Oh, how the desert creeps. Dance with me under the moon. Touch my pale skin. Devour me. Love me. |
||
| © Copyright 2001 TkB - All Rights Reserved | |||
Mysteria 
since 2001-03-07
Posts 18328British Columbia, Canada |
The story below the image you presented explains your story, but if one reads the story before looking at the image, the picture is already etched in your mind, so this is an excellent write, so well done. |
||
|
|
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
|
| All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. | ||
