Lastimado.

Jun 5 11:25 UTC 2002

It is difficult to bear.

Mingled in salty rivers of quiet desperation
are cries of silent agony
and crumbling palaces of dreams on the sands of the sea
built oft unfinished, over and over
from the whims of the tides.

I see the seagulls.
Deceptively beautiful,
they will not hesitate to change their plumage
to flock with crows and pigeons of the city
and vultures of the deep deserts.

I taste the grit of sandy rain,
falling in sparce fashion upon the sagebrush steppes I call home.
I know, somehow, it once was one of those castles,
and I push my cart further before making camp for the night.