Its a long, dry walk

Across shifting sands

Thirsty and tired

Of all the dust and grit

Its in your boots

Your socks

Your shirt and pants

Your underwear

In your hair and up your nose

You feel it in your ear canals

Across your lips

A grungy mask you can never wash away

Like the crackling shouts

Of the Muezzin

Over the loudspeakers

Full of sand

And dust muted colors of the tattered clothes

That haunt your speckled dreams.

© Erik Hansen 2015


Leave a comment

Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s