My soul is like a desolate land
whisked barren by wind’s seeping hand
What drought left gray and parched and ragged
at once so lovely and so tragic
On this fair field a pale light shines so intensely
that it feels at times on the brink of igniting
the entire place into a violent
and frenzied blaze
Must needs there be here water or fire, to quench or purge
I know not either
But something or stillness shall consume – the mass implode –
to then renew.
