By Chris W. at Perby1@aol.com
Date: 27 July 2000
Drought
Static and stagnant, my sensitivity grows dull.
With dry eyes too tired to squint, those around me remain blurry.
Searing hot winds, abrasive with the particles of the dead,
graze my skin painfully as my spirit toils on cracked ground.
Once vibrant colors become paler with the blowing dust
and I sit in this arid spot resigned to my station.
But I'd like it to rain, and cleanse this place and me
with unrelenting torrents.
Wash the film from my eyes and drench me.
Force the dead skin from my face and leave me resonant.
Soak the ground and overwhelm me with flooding waters,
and give me cause to move.
I want the dust rinsed from my body,
my hair wetted flat to my head.
Cloud the skies and let my eyes readjust;
I want to see those around me.
Open my mouth and have my thirst quenched
while I walk and leave my footprints in complaisant ground.
I want to be made wholesome by this downpour.
Can you perform these blessed ablutions?
I tire of this drought.
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