DUST BOWL

Poetry circles my brain

Vulture-like

Pecking at my humanity

And demanding satisfaction

The words soak up my tears

Unshed.

They gush with all the

Fervor of dust

Perhaps there is nothing left

Like a dried fruit

Left un-touched

Un-picked in anticipation

Of the perfect moment

Hands came and hands went

Tongues watered

For an inevitable slice

That never came

The husk shields herself

With failed intentions

Published by alexiima

Life's a party in a sunflower field. Even when we wilt, we are beautiful to behold.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Create your website with WordPress.com
Get started
%d bloggers like this: