Mojave

Cradled in her mother’s starving belly Spawn of a fruitless tree in Death Valley With only hunger pangs to worship A step in any direction would be hardship Nourishing daily on the harshest inferno There isn’t a gruelling day she’s never known Her mother’s tears of sorrow vaporise Long before they can leave her blind eyes She’s a thirst in a drought of beauty A wind-chill through the gates of hell The warm release of the coldness of death She is, against all odds, life on earth Through the thin skin of her flames Her burning desire to feel a warm embrace She dries at night with the rise of the moon And regains life with every breath of each noon