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
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