dust bowl

Dried dirt, swirling around. The wind whistles in your ears as you put your hands in gingham dress pockets and smear the grease on your dirty face. Looking around this desperate, desolate, forsaken wasteland starving. Even if you breathe through your nose, the dust still gets in your mouth. Caked in on saliva, thirst begging to be relieved by water or liquor. Cotton mouth champion and no way to rinse it out. The ground is course and rough. Nothing will ever grow here. Better off to eat the seeds. Maybe they will grow inside of us. The air whips like a sandstorm, little granules flicking and flecking off dry skin, requiring baptism by blood. Some mirage approaches me. Some solider holding the flag over her shoulder. Stepping slowly. I cannot make her face through the dust. The color scheme that surrounds is this tan, beige, peach - How I'd kill for a peach. I am swept up by these windy unknowns. Want to stop it, but don't know how. Home no longer standing, home now a place in the heart. The soldier takes a knee and I faintly hear her weeping. Some rebel's broken down, emotional wreck. Dust bowl, fish bowl. Relocation planet. Nuclear wastoid. Some sci-fi nightmare. Scanning the area with your eyes. Tatooine burning, I guess. Nothing to do but walk, and accept the fact that my mind will be gone before I reach my destination. If I reach my destination. This is not a place you'd find in a travel brochure. There's nothing here to stamp your passport with. Every season, assimilating to this climate. Some dustglobe shaken up and swirling around. At night there is no cover. Identifying nothing; no landmarks. Somebody should put a spoon in this dust bowl and scoop me up right out of it. What kind of sick kitchen is this? There are no shovels for burial. I cannot relax. Coffin hands clutched the sides. Tried to get out. Some bardo.

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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