Friday, August 11, 2017


Waking from dreams of you

In missed calls, and read messages

spaces of the future

where the possibilities collapse

without memory

swept away in the desert

in plumes of dust and sand

what kind of gift is this?

To endure,

unrelenting days in unforgiving heat

as hallucinations

of what will not come to pass.

And I am caught

In the mixture of feelings

Divided by the hurt

and the beauty

and the power

reigning over desiccated landscapes

in futures of what could have been.    

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