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.