The sun brushed blood orange
In a dry parchment sky…
A scroll carrying a wanton wish,
A whisper for the desert’s kiss.
Come play across my auburn heights,
And toe tip your rays in the windswept sands.
Come speak of Atlas and Heracles’ chores…
Cool your flame on the mediterranean shores.
Sahara offers her ferocious kiss
Smarting eyes and chapping lips…
Such ardour takes away his breath,
And tears his chromosphere to death.
We watched aghast the lover’s tryst…
as Sun and Sand merged from the mist,
We do not flower in yellow veils,
Nor in Vein-tracked chem-trails,
Which billows out across the vast and
leaden skies, loaded with laudinum,
And Lord know’s what…
And the soothsayer’s still call:
We Are The Dead!
Dale Beck copyright 2018