Men like that don’t exist anymore. Those great towers
live on like toads gathering before a squall sets in.
Dust drifting in from those desert dreams
with their promise of change. But no change comes.
Only these dry years bleeding into these empty pits.
We worked hard under that sun, running the steel,
clasping the chains, screaming against the deepness
rising up like some shadow of desire, bolting for the blue.
No one could have known it would go south,
sink down toward unknown borders, turn
away along those broken fissures of ghostly arroyos.
What remains? Rust and this cracked sky, thunder
against the night, lightning pacing the bitter rains forward,
and this squat hut where I hold the darkness, fiercely.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.