literature

summer is a lie

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BluestWaves's avatar
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Literature Text

behind the thunderstorms and mud puddles,
the flies and mexican balads,
the wastelands that look like monte and
the riverwater that smells like ocean.
What's a horizon? There's no horizon.
But up high there are coyote tales and no air, no air at all.

Lungs withering
gils straining
bones bleaching


desert desert
roads that go on forever,
nowhere.

In the middle of the sterile night, the crickets.
No shorelines.

where are you?
:O
© 2013 - 2024 BluestWaves
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ieatrosepetals's avatar
Hello!
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:heart: