End of the Trail; Lost to the Desert

by silvershoes   Dec 11, 2010


Swinging from a deadwood branch
with crosses planted in
red sands unshifted beneath
drooped moccasins.
A crackle rumbles apart
smoking clouds.
Bolts like wild vermin break loose
into the dancing night.
Tumbleweeds skip on the necks
of wind gusts, toppled
and turned, hours
churning like warm butter in a
cold casket.
Soon what story lingers
will be forgotten.

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Latest Comments

  • 13 years ago

    by Jad

    A description of a scene that I find quite remarkable. I love the many descriptions in this piece as it makes it easy to visualize the piece and it makes the reader feel as if he/she has just witness this little storm. Also your wording in this piece is creative and unique.

    Finding one part that stood out was impossible so I will tell you that I am thoroughly impressed by your poem. Great job and keep writing.

  • 13 years ago

    by sibyllene

    This is such a vivid description of a brewing storm (real? metaphorical? Is anything ever completely one or the other?) The setting is blunt and brooding, the mood expectant. It feels like a storm that happens with no one to witness.

    "hours churning like warm butter" <---- great.

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