We watch emptiness,

the dried hull of fertile lands

states of a parched world unheralded,

disrepair too far gone.

Dirt blows on winds that never cease,

sucking moisture into nothingness

becoming clouds so very high above,

we cannot touch them

they are not ours any longer.

We add water to the cracks

praying for some growth,

anything to slow the erosion

as helplessly we watch,

hopelessly we know what shall be.

We are the faces that look within for something,

anything that will turn this tide of darkness

and we speak our prayer words to the sky,

asking for relief at any price,

but we had already paid once so long ago

and pockets lay empty like the dirt below us,

our prints the only sign that we had been

until they too

were brushed away on the fickle winds

that carried us into everywhere

and nowhere all at once.

We write the testament to our being

wondering if someday and somewhere someone shall find

the strange inked symbols that will be studied,

will they take heed of the history,

will they laugh that we had been nothing

silly beings who could not stop time

to save themselves,

who could not learn their own lessons

marked hundreds of years ago,

by poor souls that we have now become.


Edge of elegance

Eyes closed as we slip into the depths,

blue green water soothing the soul

almost washing the mind of thought

on the edge of elegance

we become beautiful.

Steps taken carefully as the winds blows,

we move awkwardly against the precipice

afraid yet exhilarated by the future,

and we put it out there,

the words rarely spoken aloud

through gentle laughter and quiet breath,

we feel the peace come to settle within.

These places always fascinate the greedy mind,

that only longs to be somewhere in awe,

visually pleasing and we reach out small fingers

reaching for the attainable

and gather the drops and watch as they fall slowly

glistening in the noon day sun

as we lose ourselves for stretches of time

just being in the moment,

we have become human sundials,

marking time against our frames and the shadows that falls

longer and leaner as the day passes in nonchalant busyness.

Shivering we emerge as dusk falls

and we become silhouettes of ourselves

reflected on mirrored water,

we stand still awaiting the end of the ripples

and in the quiet and beauty of this

we know that it will never be forgotten.