Parched Rapids - Virus

Prophets call across burnt dunes

your name spells rusted carnival tunes

The sand hides hives of nested wombs

where fossils used to gallop

Watchers of the morning sift

Shifting ripples eye the world

where silence is knowledge

and creation is consumed in infinite truth

What sound would I make here

Would we be us when there is nothing left?

When minerals dry and turn to dust

the grains will form new ancient artworks

and the wind will roll up and down the dawn

Choirs of drifting trials — denials of the great

that drew the gravel into his veins

He’s the far away hills that swim into manes of silt

Strap your thoughts to this engine

that rears itself skyward

as the nimbus numbs itself to desire

Can we live with this sadness

that only rots inwards

Old rope that rows against the current

Twisted with the years