The last drought,
starvation of masses,
hunger,

for there is no river,

only bones picked over
by those glass eyed vultures.
We are the lucky ones,
we should not have come.
The plains
of our youth,
the grass turns to kindling
for the grace of man.

I abandoned my unborn
in the womb of a nameless
desert.
No canteen
when one drop could give life,

save face.

All that is left are the eyes
cobalt lightning
flashing astonishing histories,

unforseen,
                forsaken.

Foliage should be worth more.
it masks the ground, the dirt
the grime.
Any new growth is
GOLD.

The sky screams
from the bottom of a well.
Climb the ranges set in stone.
The answers you seek are not

          beneath you.