all this time, still the dust frays
about the evening sun,
like a blood-orange bloom
the desert plays on the spaghetti skies
and a quick hand traces
old wisdom upon ground
and the crowd adores
Slice frozen time
juicy like popsicle villages
spurting across the angry teeth
of the world
Return again to the scythes
in the fields we wilt
against the wind
atop the mountain-tops
we scramble down
to the broken cliffs we cry
in the hurt
lifted to the heights at the end.
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