I may be tired right now, maybe even delusional after doing a full run of homework, maybe a little of fool typing the last poem 'Her Flock' to return and do another one as I drown myself into the ocean of Adele and 'Someone Like You' 'Turning Tables' and 'Set Fire to the Rain' are all on repeat.
I may be a fool but I can't help what I feel so here it is:
Tears run dry,
gone and blown into a gust
of wind and are no more,
but salty, red dust.
The banks are cracked,
The lining losing its moisture,
the stagnant dry air hitting glassy eyes
and yet, they stay wide open: no cries.
The dirt is hard,
the grit harder.
The glue is has now disappeared
which was used to keep it together.
Her eyes shut; then open
Open to night
where the cold air sweeps through
the dingos howl as the dead silence brews.
The next morning the same,
Tumble weed passes
Animals become lame
die out, dry out in masses
and what is left is a plain of carcasses.
Days turn to nights,
The cycle wains on.
Time flys
and it is still dry.
Parched and withering,
the buds inside are wilting,
no growth, no life
they are buried.
Buried deep under sarcasm and wit
Now your mind clicks
As you have redeemed understanding
Of what the poem is concerning.
The abundant and fresh river system,
now gone as my veins are fading
into nothing, drying up right up to the source
which was the next target.
The heart; now resembles gray slate
cold steel strong beams.
Reconstructed and tough
and after a little more buff
all will be lost from the very beginning
when the last rains had fallen
and now they aren't winning.
But now what is left
Is dust, grit and iron.
A western movie, Lake Eyre
where the drought rides on
until the seasons rains are reborn.
It all started with do you remember...
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