first a detour
up high mountains
fourteen something odd thousand feet
of sweat and aching legs then cold bones when the storms roll in
and near moments of losing your soul
down badlands
of red dirt and the memories of rivers
haunting you
while you lick the dust from your bleeding lips
and cringe under the devil’s sun
wishing for that taste of water
and hoping like hell that when you find it
it does more than just quench your thirst.
-Esteban A. Martinez
No comments:
Post a Comment