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


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Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing

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