Wednesday, February 9, 2011

past presence

Do you even hear the wind

as it rushes o'er your valleys?

Stop to see the remnant hissing

of the leaves which mourn its pass?

Do you ever miss the rainstorms,

miss the nourishment they'd replenish?

Stop to ponder cool sensations

as your skin was gently kissed?

Prior shoulders robust and grand

now thin and wrinkled, parched by heat.

Flesh now dangles in delicate feature

from cold hands and blithe fingers.

Squalor of a barren prairie,

stripped to bare skin without water.

Worn to bone in delicate feature,

fragile; unforgiving still.

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