I thought I'd write a poem after reading a bit about the Gobi Desert and how people used to believe that nothing but demons lived there, on account of the strange sounds of the howling winds. Being one to let his imagination run away with him, I decided that that was as good a topic as any on which to write a poem, lol.
It's cold here at night, under the stars
pressing against the ceaselessly
unstable grains of the endlessly
marching dunes as they capture
day and night what's set before them.
The demons whisper their hollow
gong sounds and chant of the lost
who bravely crossed this place once
looking for brighter plains and newer
worlds to raid, pillage and destroy.
Nothing is ever the same in our
repetetive march toward home,
toward salvation from the wind
and the shame and the heat
and the pain and the death.
Over one dune, then the next
and then hundreds more, hoping
to see something new over that
next peak - footprints blowing
away in the sand, us meeting ourselves
trailing toward home, marching an orbit
about an invisible centre somewhere
seated within the dunes and the sand.
2+2=5 for sufficiently large values of 2