The dust hasn't settled but the air is still.
There is no movement, no sound.
Bare feet traipse the arid landscape,
Skin succumbing to bruises and abrasions.
Dirt whips around like a tornado,
Burning my skin where there is contact.
There is no safe haven, no shelter.
Water has long dissipated into the atmosphere.
I am thrust into the care of no one,
My fate unknown to all but God.
But in this god-forsaken landscape,
Trouble lurks in every shadow.
Waiting to snatch me from the clutches of protection,
A war that has not yet ceased.
My mind whirls in overdrive,
This post-apocalyptic landscape in my mind.
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My friend and I were exchanging stories and the prompt was "wasteland". Again, Plath and Bei Dao are heavy influences in my use of imagery and language, as well as my mind creating scenarios to base these around.
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vote, comment, leave suggestions and requests!!
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aek
YOU ARE READING
anthology
Poetryan-tho-lo-gy /anˈθɒlədʒi/ -noun- a published collection of poems or other pieces of writing. (Dictionary.com, 2020) welcome to my world, the world of anais euphoria king. try not to cry.
