Another night, another single source of heat and light

evaporating all the rivers that dare to course through

darkened fiber optic veins. Dry, dry dry, the desert skin

cracks at its moon-baked surface, desert lips to scrape

across the cheek of the alcoholic sunrise. Raspy voice,

so dry, evaporating from nowhere lungs buried in the

Earth’s core, coiling lazily through the corridors only

to coalesce at the door, red hot, in a single sorry mirage

of truth. Dust to dust to whirlwind to sky, a place for

everything, and everything’s skin desiccated, coiled up

into blistered reams of bacon. Now we are dry, in memory of

when we used to live, a time before the fossilization, a time

of soothing aloe, those days are over, the world’s water taken

by an angry sun, drawing all the essence from the souls below.

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