Sweeping dessert winds
          and sun-stroke trails.
Shallow fast graves
          and discreet tails.

Dripping beads of
          sweat of mediation.
Hair flung back
          hung in dissociation.

Perverted curiosity
          for open-air dreams
and sacrilegious ideas
          carving the only path.

  This horse is tired ...
          ... I can feel his shaking hooves ...
   We can't stay ... only for water ...
        ... we are getting harrowing looks ...
     This sand-brush is sparse ...
     ... seldom ... if even ... a farce ...
  That showering orb ... in the sky ...
        ... killer ... I'm going to die ...

What do you think? Criticisms and praise welcome.

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  • Months through the ANTHOLOGY

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