songs from the desert
you ask "is this real? fantasy?"
but i can't answer
there's no clear, dividing line
between truth and illusion
just a meandering river
that seperates one bank from another:
it's we who set these in opposition.
you can see yourself as one person, play another
see no fiction, no fracture in them both.
when we wake our dreams stop
but they don't become less real;
light of day illuminates supposed illusions
just as dreams grow from waking life.
the only answer to your question
is yes.
and no.
sunburnt
i came out of the desert alive,
but wounded.
with lips like shattered glass,
harsh, sharp-edged from the wind,
now incapable of tenderness,
fingers cracked and bleeding
callused and hardened by burning dust
unable to feel softness anymore.
but every scar bears a lesson
and every hurt holds the promise of strength--
the desert reminds me that while broken hearts heal
a body unmarred by love remains tenderly ignorant of living.
beer, diluted with saltwater
sadness pervades this place--
it's subtle, invisible, but you can smell it
hiding in the smoky carpet.
you catch a whiff walking by
and it draws you in
the romance of pain.
once it gets you though
it's quicksand pulling you down real slow:
and the booze drowns you, not just your tears,
leaves you choking on the pain
you can't swallow and can't cough out.
just embrace it,
let it float you to the surface
till you reach the edge,
and find something to grab hold of.