the morning sun low on the horizon
glowers at me with the heat of a distant moonscape.
mockingbirds chatter on as if they
were cactus wrens atop sharply outlined yuccas.
yet familiar burnt cliffs aren't to be seen,
only geometric scatterings of glass and concrete.
eyes closing, memory's vision open
to towering rust and tangerine formations.
warm breezes rustle tendrils shading face,
fingertips feel raw at asperous monzonite
my ancient castles appear around me.
No comments:
Post a Comment