Daring, daring, the dearly dirigible tumble weed at its plain,
Dry with dust and ever dreading the drip drip dropping of the lurid rain,
Canvased sneakers neath my feet
Know the tumbleweed’s no foe too fleet,
As they tread might’ly onward against the westward tracks of the train.
Dust that has covered the lands since ten thousand years ago
still clings to the folds of my sneakers in my footprints, as in snow,
I glance down at my skin
and wonder that within
the dust of this planet, was I once here long ago.
But this land of the dry sun and the liquid moon in my head,
To my racing thoughts these hang prominent as a satchel of lead,
when I scream “will this pass?”
The silence answers en masse,
“Dear, child these questions are saved for the dead.”
Sinking to my knees I feel the cold wet tears run,
the only hope for liquid oasis in this clay-baking sun,
hidden in the tears
is something more than fears,
it’s the remedy, the hope for The One.