I trace the lines of discord on a discolored wall in a dismantled land.
Ruins of what tomorrow was is all that the eye can see,
covered by sand.
The tragedy of human corruption smiles upon my hand.
Dust.
It always crumbles into dust as I try and observe the rust.
Rust.
Dusty rusty.
I laugh at my exasperated joke.
My last drop of saliva disappeared, as if I spoke.
This parched tongue grasps its roof and pushes on its neighbor teeth.
It claws at the uvula, squeezing out any material it can.
My hands clench as my anxiety pulls itself out of my heart and I rummage for my canteen.
Plenty of water.
Water is still plenty.
My mother always did tell me,
"Each drop of water is a soul we lost on that day.".
I laugh again.
I don't know why I even cared to worry about getting dry.
By the way it seems, the water will never fall out of supply.