Ship To Wreck
The desert ships plod across the dreary splintered sands
Their sinking hooves paddle wearily in the tan of dunes
Shoving a daunting mist of dust
That lofts to hatch a ceremony of omens
The desert speaks, the desert plays its harp
Every step pulls the thin fabric of survival
And the dying travellers remain tensive
Their yawning will to survive starves
And the riders gutter down every calorie into its mouth
Feeding their sinew to cling on.
The herky-jerky of the saddle
Irons flat their leathery palms
And their grip blisters
The pride of lions living in the camels' snorts
Gush a din of anguish with every roar
The desert speaks, the desert plays its harp
The wilting souls speak an ocean tongues
Yet all understand the one language of the desert
The scroll is spread and its tan await ink
Each camel writes its story
Footstep after footstep, line after line
The grains of sand are filled with memories
And soon the desert storms will lay flat a fresh page
To embrace the succeeding authors
Copyright © Kunda Chamatete | Year Posted 2016
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