An incessant wind is blowing
the dying wheat
around my knees.
Fragile stalks
clutch at my faded denim
like lost and hungry children.
My mouth like this soil,
perpetually dry.

Out here,
the sun is so bright
it lights your sins,
here is no place to flee.
It has burnt me
into such a broken mirage,
I have become
unconvinced of myself.

I kneel on this
seared, sooty land,
like a lunatic, praying in
a patchwork perdition.
Dusty boots trod
this gaping earth,
crossing cracks wide enough
to swallow my faith.

These forgotten fields hold
patterns of loss so close,
like a child’s blanket.
If Hope is a rare shadow,
you’ll find neither here,
even our memories
have become distant memories.

The sky
has forgotten how to cry.