Tuesday, 3 April 2012

Arid As Atacama

These times of low reception 
Unnerving me somehow. 
The frailest self-deception 
Falls painful on the brow. 
Piercing through the armour 
Which never should allow, 
A fear you may forget me 
For now, and now, and now. 

Atacama has a cactus 
That thrives without the rain, 
No wells or rivers feed it 
Yet still it makes its gain. 
Now with this veil upon me 
And no way to explain, 
My soul's an arid fragment 
Becoming dust again.

Copyright© Alan Gilbert 2012.

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