Lost
Hands stir sand,
pluck dead skin.
Eyes endeavor to reach
the end of the horizon,
fight the blur of woe.
Throats cough against
stale lips that can no longer
harbor tasting tongues.
Dizzy bones linger inside
unkempt sacks of wonder,
hoping to find rain in a
place where there is none.
The sun beckons the lost forward.
The first blush,
and the last scowl of day
taunts their souls…
Feet leave their mark
in a place soon to be
entombed.
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.
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