Woman of the Wasteland I of III

As I wash these dishes. I wash the wishes from these tired and ruined hands. I look out into the street with a thousand yard stare Eyes lost glazed bare… I see my children playing in these dirty and broken streets in an iron wasteland. They know nothing of fields oceans flowers or a brilliant sun. They only know towers of glass, chrome, burning cars, n broken neon bars. As muddy dark clouds gather, ash drifts, trash litters here n there. Dry thunder rumbles. Fragments of yesterday tumbles solemnly aloft in desolations winds. So with each cruel word. With each hand across my face… fuels my hate. With each blow each loathsome glance… I feel something drying, cracking falling… Each lie from his lips drives devotion away. I slice the dry Rye. Look out onto the street to see my little boys at play… I need to leave these wasted lands. These wastelands of cold hard stares n cruel innuendos… that hurt like fist across the back of the belove. I cry each day. I die a little along the way. I die each minute of the passing hour. Stones, drop into this broken heart. Each stone builds a wall of isolation. I drown in the well of bottomless desolation. As I look out in to desolations boulevard I wash these cracked and dirty dishes and wash these wishes from these raw hands n watch my children run in play… …this iron wasteland.