dead (summer)
dried up riverbeds,
parched fields harvesting
crops of bitter feeling and
dreams unfulfilled.
there is no rain,
only a reign of blistering heat,
no hope grows here,
only endless rolling plains
of scorched emotions.
treading through knee high drifts
of crickets, a mathematicians dream...
multiplying endlessly only to be subtracted
leaving a scent of brimstone behind
to remind us of their existence.
colored blind landscapes
brown and black mix until only
a dusty grey remains.
did color ever exist in this lifetime?
or was it only a figment of an imagination
overindulging in wishful thinking?
i know not.
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust,
will life return?
it must, it must.
Rob Pierce
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