Dusty and Dry

(or Arid Afternoon)

While trudging down a faint road worn into the barren desert,
Fighting the impressive heat of mid-afternoon;
Years weighing heavy on shoulders bent with exhaustion and worn out fears;
I search for words I had in the soft morning light;

When the moistness of dew lay on the earth and the coolness of
night still lingered, and the sun cast its low light
through the drops and made colorful the drabness,

Dusty air sucked through cracked nostrils sears lungs,
Steals water not already dried on burnt skin;
Steals desire to share with paint or paper,
To make my own beauty and imbue the things around me with soul,
The inner drive to leave a mark, to make a difference, to find meaning;
And I realize anew how teeming with life adapted to dryness is the desert around me,
And how puny seems my own soul's ambition.

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