Dying of Thirst

A dearth of rain, and now the plains are sere,
this desolation crazes earthly clay
and clouds the rutted stone with noxious dust.
As landmarks shimmer, start to disappear—
we stray in loops, but who can stand to stay?

The spoor of reason leads a daunting chase
through brewing bogs and dens of dark disgrace.

A misty wind will loft its bland bouquet,
demand a chance to bring about a tear
and watch the iron rod dissolve to rust.
Concerned with vapid skits of mirth and play
the worth of souls is augured by veneer.

A drought of purpose urges roots to dive
but sans a shower little will survive.