Sunday Whirl
Far From Home
I sit among the ruins
Crumbled, rotted, waste
A metallic taste in my mouth
As just before throwing up
The staccato beat of my heart
Crashes loudly in my ears
A dart is thrown
Seeking a target
I am in exile
I walk the desert
Lift the latch
Reveal the scar
The wind throws a billow of sand
Before me
Dirt devils give a petulant twist
Light fuses
Set fires seen in the distance
I accept the present without rebellion
The future is dubious