A Well Run Dry

The lands run acrid, dry and bare, forlorn of verdant greenery
Rancor permeates my heart
Prevaricates, the sky and river, my land's true form of scenery
Let us pray to whom thou art

Nothing: censure for our words, our lives fall apart
There is no salvation
No tutelage, no rescue, my congregation now dispart
No precipitation

Dust and dirt and misery, malnutrition, dehydration
Philomaths no longer be
These lessons are too harsh to learn, of suffering, of deprivation
We'd take ignorance blissfully

My flock wilts before the sun, almost risible it is to see
Them slaver for the merest sips
Like dogs, mouths dark and florid, thirsting for commodity
With cracking lips

And I can only watch or pray, as land and dream all turn to rips
Hope, barely a scart
We can only wait, in God's cruel irony, whilst like water 'twixt our fingertips
Our lives depart

The End

60 comments about this poem Feed